I’m honored today to see my satirical essay, “I Am Going To Drive Drunk Tonight” appear over at Winedrunk Sidewalk: Shipwrecked in Trumpland. You can find the piece right here.
As always, thanks to Editor John Grochalski for allowing me to add my voice at Winedrunk Sidewalk!
To a Friend Who Unfriended Me on Facebook:
Sorry I employed the Socratic method to deflate your position and illustrate for the world how poorly you conceived it. I’m also sorry I posted evidence on your wall that vividly contradicts your argument. Finally, I’m sorry that I made fun of your spelling and grammar.
Get smarter, #$%^&*@#$%^&.
Sincerely,
Eric Robert Nolan
what stars I find will usher me,
the moon will beam camaraderie,
what winds will wind around my ears
will bend to answer for my fears.
between them, all the endless space
will draw eternity to face
with vast and reassuring mien
the quandaries of the unserene.
here, the shade of me will mark
a figure in the violet dark.
all the hilltop consorts know
identity’s illusion, though.
let starlight penetrate my skin,
the moon expand to let me in,
the winds, again, absorb my voice,
if retrieval be their choice.
— (c) Eric Robert Nolan 2020
By Jeremy Bishop tidesinourveins – https://unsplash.com/photos/wtEO1tLeNQwImageGallery, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=62203699
I abhor your bland insistence,
yet admire your persistence.
Nag on, you resolute harpy!
Illustration of a Harpie by Jean-Baptiste Coriolan, Monstrorum Historia, Ulisse Androvandi, 1642
Okay, the Apple Jacks commercial below is a pretty regrettable example of 1980’s cornball marketing buffoonery. I’ll tell you what, though — I have fond memories of that wicked-cool glow-in-the-dark Wacky Wallwalker that came as the cereal box prize. (I am linking her to the DJ Nurse Annabella Youtube channel, by the way.)
Had I gotten mine as a prize with Apple Jacks? I guess. I know my mom had returned from the store with these for me once or twice. (They were the non-glowing variety, but they were still fun as hell.) She only partly regretted her decision when it became apparent that they left vague streak marks on white walls. When these cheap toys started losing their key adhesiveness, all you had to do was wash them with soap to make them sticky again. That might have had something to do with it.
That definitive treasure trove of information, Wikipedia, informs me that Wacky Wallwalkers are made from “elastomer.” And they raked in about 80 million dollars for the Japanese-American inventor who bought the rights to the toy around 1983 from their prior owner in Japan.
I swear I want to play with one of these right now.
Seriously, though, the May 2020 issue is a great read — even if page 14 has a poem by that weirdo Eric Nolan guy.
I am so pleased to share here that another poem of mine was published today over at Winedrunk Sidewalk: Shipwrecked in Trumpland — it’s my recent short poem entitled “Contagion is a Despot Poet.”
You can find it right here.
Thanks again, Editor John Grochalski, for allowing me to join the community over at Winedrunk Sidewalk!
I was talking to a writer friend over the phone last night about how we could encourage each other to return our respective works in progress.
Her: “If I could sketch out time on my schedule, I think I could work on it on a regular basis.”
Me: “If I could turn back time — if I could find a way — I’d take back those words that hurt you, and you’d stay.”
(I know it was a corny joke, but I still thought it was good enough to Cher.)
Staying at home can be disorienting because every day feels the same.
I try to keep myself grounded with music. But then Morrissey comes on and every day is like Sunday.
She’s a painter in oils in the land of the blind —
and a sculptor over the dead.
The deaf will demur to her poetry
while epics roar in her head.
Like Cassandra, who spun futures
so dolefully from frenzied lips,
Her words are as mad to insensate hearts
as sea-sunk towers, desert ships.
Would that I could assuage that hearth
where her discernment smolders —
my hands around the hard and the white
limestone of her shoulders.
(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2020
“Evening Mood,” William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1882
