Poetry: Selections From Philip Granof

Antlers

 

I wish I had antlers.

They’d stop the small talk.

Nothing too fancy, maybe 30 pounds,

four or five points per side.

Every spring they’d grow,

soft and velvety.

I’d rub them against

the sides of buildings and lamposts.

In summer, I’d let children swing

from them, maybe hang

a windchime. I’d always get

into the most exclusive clubs,

walk right past the bouncer

who’d nod and open the rope.

You don’t see a guy with

antlers in a Tom Ford tux everyday.

At the bar, I’d order a bourbon, 

shoot my cuffs,

check my Rolex.

I’d never have to speak first

or answer what I do for a living.

I’d just say back off, man,

it’s rutting season,

and spit an ice cube back in my drink.

 

 

 

Court House

 

Twelve Frigidaire window A/C units

blow arctic air into the giant waiting

room. One spits ice chips onto the 

low pile rug. Another rattles viciously

attempting escape out of the 8th floor

window. Rows upon rows of 

black fabric stackable chairs sit waiting

for prospective jurors, prize seats along

the wall with electric outlets for the

strategically minded. One jury or one day

the rule goes. I’m here an hour early

in the third row, holding a two inch

square paper with my name and 

the number ten and wonder if it’s 

a good number or a bad number. Still

no one else has arrived and I think 

maybe I’m dead and don’t know it yet.

An officer of the court appears, 

directs me to the free coffee. 

They only have non-dairy creamer in hell.

 

 

 

 

 

Philip Granof was born in Hollywood, California — in what is now the painted blue Church of Scientology's world headquarters — and grew up in the San Fernando Valley. He lives in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts, and performs regularly at the Cantab Lounge and the Lizard Lounge in Cambridge. He brings to his poetry what only thirty-five years in corporate America can: an eye for the absurd and an ear for the elegiac.