hee hee

In the first week of August, a small independent publisher I won’t name (but whose bona fides I have checked) will be bringing out a book called “The Snakes On A Plane Scrapbook” which compiles “the best writing about the movie from the Internet,” and which documents the effect the Internet buzz has had on the producers during and after the making of the movie.

Guess which poem’s going to be in it? This one:

SNAKES ON A PLANE

I woke up tonight after a nap
and looked at myself:
fat again, in limbo again, still medicated, still
underemployed. Smoking again. Drinking
too much, and snappish and boorish to boot.
Tomorrow’s my birthday. I’m nearly 50.
The TV and the magazines tell me
it’s all Snakes On A Plane from now on —
you know, where you’re waiting for something to kill you
and you’ve got nowhere to go.
So why for the first time
do I like what I see?

Maybe because of this:

There’s a black dog in the corner who keeps
looking at me. Right now, he’s chained up
and there’s no drool, he might be asleep but
with eyes that dark it’s hard to tell.

I know this dog.
I’ve known him for years. He doesn’t bite like a snake —
no quick nerve-freeze, no sudden fall —
no, the dog clamps down
and holds on till you’re dragged to the ground,
and he’ll follow you around all the time waiting
for his chance to do it.
I used to worry about that.
I could care less now.

The way I look at it:
at this age I’m well into the second half.
Whatever bites me, bites me.
If I get depressed, I’m skipping the suicide
because there’s isn’t all that long to wait.

And if there are snakes
on this motherfucking plane,
motherfucker, please — at least I’m flying.