Poetry: Selections From Philip Granof

AppleCare

 

In Kyoto, 

I ordered Natto–

fermented, webby, 

mucous-covered

stretchy.

The Okami, 

short round smiling

watched my every 

move. 

Waiting. 

I thought of Michel Lotito,

who ate an entire airplane.

Even ate the brass plaque

from Guinness World Records.

Said lubrication

was the key.

Died of natural causes

at 57. 

I opened

my AirPod case,

popped both buds

in my mouth like 

Aspirin, swallowed,

patted my stomach,

and said Arigatou,

I’m full. 

She ran out screaming

as I admonished myself

for not buying AppleCare.

Spaghetti Boy

 

His parents decided to raise

him as a normal boy

despite being born

with arms made of pasta.

 

The first few years were rough:

keeping his arms dry

explaining to grandparents and cousins

enduring their consolations—

oh, he has your eyes,

such a beautiful smile.

No one asked to hold him.

 

They moved to the desert, 

somewhere outside of Needles, California

lived off the grid

composted religiously

 

until their Instagram took off

first post 2.3 million views—

Here’s how he opens cans.

Look at him hold a pencil!

What kind of music does he like?

Does he have a girlfriend?

 

Spaghetti boy monetized.

 

Now, followers make pilgrimage 

down Route 66

into 120 degrees of Mojave fuck you

seeking wisdom and recipes

staring at their own pudgy hands

worried they’ve wasted their lives

as the mushrooms kick in.

The Accountant

 

He was last seen

on a horse about 80 miles

north of Bakersfield

outside the Harris Lot Feed Ranch.

 

No one really knows why

he disappeared one day

after two decades 

in the Tax and Audit division

of Price Waterhouse.

Never took a sick day.

His last report was left

on his desk, on time.

 

The CCTV images from

the bank he robbed

with a cattle prod in 

West Covina also took

everyone by surprise.

Got away with nearly $20,000. 

His note to the teller read:

Max your 401k at least to the employer match 

or you're leaving free money on the table.

 

In her police report,

the teller remarked that

he never blinked

and had a scorpion tattoo 

on his right wrist.

(No one at the firm recalled this.)

In the early morning,

before she gets the kids ready

for school, she still thinks of him.

 

 

 

 

 

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.