October 27, 2019

Steve Henn

THEY MUSTACHE HIM SOME QUESTIONS

“Impeachment investigators are in talks with a lawyer for John Bolton about bringing the mustachioed former national security adviser in for a closed-door deposition …”
—New York Times Impeachment Briefing

… the hairy-lipped former Bush White House insider
is expected to be candid in his smudge-faced, hoary-mouthed
assessment of the Trump White House. He of the hirsute
nose-ledge battled with Trump on several issues, not the least
among them the policy on North Korea, with their
sickeningly clean-shaven and weak-shouldered dictator, and also on
Iraq, who for years we could rely on to broadcast the sweet,
sexy ’stache of Saddam “the human Rom Com” Hussein.
The follicle-face-feathered family man is a favorite
of conservatives—when he bites the corn dog
of Trump’s mishandled Ukraine situation don’t expect
one dollop of ketchup to be saved for later to savor
in the flavor-saver above his upper lip. Bolton
has appeared on Fox News, gaining him traction with
conservatives, who turn to his bountiful ’stache, his
regal, manly ’stache, whenever the cleanshaven face
of our own Baby Hitler disappoints them. In other news
our Tinfoil Hat Commander in Chief claims he’s comparable
to Lincoln, as if donning a tophat and calling oneself honest
is just as mustacherrific as saving the union, and freeing the enslaved.

from Poets Respond
October 27, 2019

__________

Steve Henn: “When I saw in the daily emailed update from the New York Times that the writer took pains to refer to John Bolton as ‘mustachioed,’ I couldn’t help but imagine the scribe behind the story had some strange and silly fixation on facial hair. I used to write in a satiric mode a lot, and don’t nearly as often now, but I do like the idea of taking the wind out of the sails of self-aggrandizing heads of state with well-placed ridicule. A second story, earlier this week, noted what’s mentioned at the end of the poem—that our President is fond of telling everyone within earshot how much he reminds himself of Abraham Lincoln—even his poll numbers, he says, are better.” (web)

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April 12, 2019

Steve Henn

SOCCER DAD

So I have to sit through my son’s soccer practice
for 45 minutes before the nine-year-olds gladiate
and step on each other’s feet and take balls in the face
in the third game of the season and I think I’ll bring
a poetry book to read no big deal nobody’s gonna notice
well I’ve been reading along in this poetry book and it’s a good
poetry book and I turn to a poem that includes a snake
and the snake is oiled/ slick like a male member slick
with the juices of the female or something to that effect
and I’ve got this book open, on my lap, thinking, Christ,
these good soccer moms and dads are gonna think I’m
some odd sort of pervert reading about a slick member
while sitting at a soccer game for nine-year-old boys
so I put the book down but I’m bored the practice is boring
the games are better it’s a competition between your children
and other people’s children which is the best way
to get the American parent interested in their children
that I know of so I decide to pick up the book again
and open to the next page and the title of the poem
is “Foreskin” good gravy how am I supposed to bring
a poetry book to soccer practice to enjoy in my own
private island of headspace not having to talk
to the other parents if emblazoned there at the top of the page
I’m reading that anybody can peek over and ask about is
“Foreskin” and I mean no disrespect to the poet
this poet was recommended as one of the greats
writing in American English today and she probably is
some of the poems earlier in the book really did
take the top of my head off in the way the ol’ cat lady
said poetry ought to so the game starts my son’s team
goes up 3-0 in the first quarter lickety split
then the other side gets a goal back in quarter two
then my son volunteers to play goalie which terrifies me
and he performs three hair raising saves two in the corner
by the post just before the ball crosses the goal line
and another by charging out into the thick of legs
around the penalty spot claiming the ball by diving on it
when the ball’s on the other side of the field I call to him
“Oren!” and give him two thumbs up like I’m saying
which dad is proud of his son—this guy! definitely not
like I’m saying who wants the word “Foreskin” real big
in the book of poetry they’re reading among the churchgoing
normies of Normaltown Indiana and Oren thumbs up back
and we’re feeling pretty good till they get one lucky one
and then another because nobody on our team will get in the way
of the big boy on the other side and he crushes one from fairly close
range Oren didn’t have a chance so after that second goal 
he walks over to the sideline rips his goalie penny off
throws it on the ground kicks something and yells
and all the parents are awwwwing and oooohing and ahhhhing
look at that a nine-year-old throwing a fit cause he got scored
on twice and I was sad and all but not disappointed really
not upset who’s going to begrudge a nine-year-old a fit
when a kid built like a truck has just crushed two balls past him
in quick succession and I kinda wanna take the pressure off my kid
and make him not the center of revulsion or pity or empathy
or whatever human emotions are being psychotransmorgrificationally
beamed in his direction so I open the poetry book
lay it on my lap plain as day in the 70 degree sunshine
look around at all the parents and go “can anybody tell me
what this word means?”

from Rattle #62, Winter 2018
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Steve Henn: “This poem is the true (-ish) story of the lengths I will go to avoid awkward conversation with other soccer parents. When I read it aloud for poetry people I typically read the last line of dialogue as ‘can anybody tell me / what ‘foreskin’ means?’” (web)

 

Steve Henn is the guest on Rattlecast #68! Click here to watch …

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August 11, 2017

Steve Henn

WHAT I’M ALL ABOUT

No wonder somebody from Plenty of Fish
talked to me. She wasn’t real. I got catfished.
Down here at rock bottom it doesn’t seem as funny to me
as you might think it would. Without my beer goggles on
the profile pic looks surprisingly similar to Taylor Swift.

I’m such an emotional masochist I’m just going to let
that one hang in the air like a thick skunk fart and permeate
like self-loathing that doesn’t go away even after a 25 minute
shower  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . it looked like a picture of Taylor Swift.

No one with her name in the Syracuse, Indiana, area, where she said
she’s from, could be found in a Facebook search. That didn’t seem suspicious
to me. When I told her I wrote a poem I like
instead of asking what it’s about she said “lol nice poem.”

Then she said she worked at Paradise Liqiours (sic)
and of course she has her charity organization.
Still no recognition of a red flag on my part. She asked for photos
of me, my children, and my house. Now she’s scamming someone else
as if she’s a single father from Nowhere, USA, with a seven-year-old son
exactly as adorable as mine. I never did send a photo of my house.
Or my PayPal login. Nope. All I did was give away my dignity.

I think I must’ve ignored everything that didn’t make sense
because I felt lucky a real person was talking to me.

She wanted to know the story of my life.

She wanted to know what had put me here, single in Indiana
in the wealthiest nation on Planet Earth
without a wife, such a “hansom” guy like me.

It seemed like she was really interested in me.

It seemed like she really wanted to know what I’m all about.

from Rattle #56, Summer 2017
Tribute to Poets with Mental Illness

[download audio]

__________

Steve Henn: “I don’t often write directly about my mental health issues in my own poems. Two different times I’ve enjoyed extended stays in some of the most unhelpful psychiatric wards Indiana has to offer, but not since 1999. I see a good psychiatrist usually four times a year, and stay on my medication always. Doc S. says I’m bipolar with generalized anxiety disorder, and it’s the most accurate diagnosis I’ve ever received. I work full time and raise four kids alone—it’s important to me not to use my diagnosis to justify learned helplessness or to make excuses for myself. We get by.” (website)

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May 21, 2017

Steve Henn

SUICIDE NOTE

Hey Zeb,

Remember when you dubbed Soundgarden
for me in high school and I said it sounded like
a symphony of chainsaws? Chris Cornell died
today. God Bless that man and his Gift
of a generation’s greatest pipes. So much
of what I learn to appreciate I disregard
at first listen. I saw Sparklehorse once
opening for Mazzy Star. My brother and I agreed
that Hope Sandoval looked and sounded beautiful
and that Mark Linkhaus must’ve been
“a little too into his artistic self.” Now
I can’t listen to It’s a Wonderful Life
without crying. My family never knew jack
about modern music but my dad did keep a copy
of Portnoy’s Complaint on the bookshelf
behind the television. That book was good
for me or it wasn’t, whatever.
It didn’t matter, or it mattered less
than I’d’ve overeagerly argued it did.
In my Escort that we called “The Big Blue Shit”
we’d sing along to Eddie Vedder’s
“I’m goin’ hungry”—we could only falsetto
pantomime Cornell’s part. I remember once
when Musgrave walked in to his classroom
and chalked no one here gets out alive
on the blackboard. A bunch of kids were like
what’s that supposed to mean? but you and I
pretended that we knew just what he meant.

Poets Respond
May 21, 2017

[download audio]

__________

Steve Henn: “This poem is in response to Chris Cornell’s suicide this week. Suicide is an issue that has touched me personally and has touched my old bestie from high school, Zeb, and the poem is an attempt to write my friend a thoughtful response to Cornell’s death and our shared history that I couldn’t quite capture in a text to him on the day of Cornell’s suicide this week.” (web)

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October 31, 2016

Steve Henn

ALWAYS WANTED A CAREER IN EDUCATION? (CLICK HERE)

I went into teaching, obviously,
to create a vast network of lackeys
reaching beyond their decades
of graduation to infiltrate communities
with my nefarious values. And to create
yes-men. Yes-people. Yes-women, too.
LGBTQ yes-folk. Equal opportunity yessing.
Everyone can agree with me.
Everyone can do what I say.
When their hands raise in class my lackeys know
the only appropriate comment is “tell me what
to think of this, Mr. Greatest Poet
in the Universe,” and I say, Sally, Billy, whatever,
you’re free to think exactly as I think
as much as you’d like. Sarah. Sam. Whoever
you are or may be—Christ, they stick me
with 120-150 of you whiners per semester,
you’d think God or Allah or the Hindi Elephant God,
whoever’s in charge, ought to know
I’ve got more students in here than I can keep track of.
“Yes, Mr. The Greatest English Teacher in Known
and Unknown History,” my students answer kindly,
gracefully, gratefully. “We understand you,
Mr. Don’t Worry We Love You,” they coo,
they soothe. “We were put here, in your presence,”
they confess, “so that you might be understood.”
An otherworldly glint shimmers in their eyes,
which I choose to ignore; it’s like the palms
of their hands are pushing against my heels—
I go up and up and up, ever onward
into the light, understood, appreciated, elevated,
probing heaven with my hands
as if this were my coronation.

from Rattle #53, Fall 2016
Tribute to Adjuncts

__________

Steve Henn: “One of the classes I teach in an Indiana high school is a dual-credit IU freshman composition course, followed in the spring by a dual credit IU Literary Interpretation course. I am considered IU faculty as a teacher of the course, and am not remunerated for my services, although the training for it is paid for by IU. The students pay for and earn IU credit for the courses. In that sense, I’m another source of cheap labor for the Indiana University system. This poem was written in the past year, during my second time teaching the L202 course and third time teaching freshman comp.” (web)

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September 27, 2016

Steve Henn

MAKING SENSE OF THIS ELECTION

Last night I dreamt I was running for Vice President
against Donald Trump and Mike Pence on the
Higgins/Henn/Mevis ticket. Ben Higgins is the guy from here
who became TV’s The Bachelor and has such a sparkling charm
and wit to him that Saturday Night Live spoofed him in a sketch
called The Bland Man. I learned this from my daughter. I don’t watch
Saturday Night Live—I pass out on the couch Saturdays around the time
it airs, after Notre Dame football finally ends. Andrew Mevis
is this kid in my AP English class who is a nationally ranked
high school football punter. Apparently it took
two of us to fill out the VP portion of the ticket. Actually it was sort of
like running for President of Warsaw Indiana because we were in
this big public building like the Center Lake Pavilion with
metal folding chairs set up in rows and a microphone on a stand
and a screen and projector and we were going to do presentations.
Trump presents, we present—rather than debate. Like we’re being called
in to talk to the community like one of those shysters in the Education
field who quit teaching to travel around and tell working teachers
what their attitude should be about teaching and generally how
they might avoid failing children miserably for the rest of their lives.
So Trump blah blahs a lot, makes a lot of promises, the usual, and Ben
and Andrew and I are standing at the back of the big room
scheming, plotting how to upstage the Orange One and Ben
goes, I got this, don’t worry about it, you don’t have to say
anything, I’m gonna nail this, just back me up. But when
we get up to the mic, me and Mevis standing behind Ben
with our arms folded like a couple-a wannabe hardasses,
(Mevis can pull it off, he’s large and muscular, I am not,
I am large and not muscular, I fake it). what actually happens
is Higgins steps up to the mic and the Bland Man has nothing
to say. He opens his mouth and a great void of nothingness
spills out, a giant empty space, like his whole speech
was written by a nihilistic existentialist who doesn’t believe
in having things to say, so I have to cover for him—we can’t
embarrass ourselves, we have to say something, and I rant and rave
about various things political, I honestly don’t remember, I think in my
dream state I had an impression of myself as being a powerful truth teller,
but I’m sure if my psyche or God or someone could transcribe
the monologue to show me while awake it wouldn’t’ve made
any sense. I often have the sensation of making sense while
on some more elemental level I know I’m not making sense
in my dreams. So I sit down on the small rising of the stage
after speaking and Trump is furious—I’ve called him out,
I’ve exposed him somehow, or tried to, and he marches to me
and threatens to hit me and I’m like “hit me” and I sit there
sullen with my shoulders sloped like I’m about to take some
asinine punishment that deep in my marrow I feel I’ve earned
from my Catholic forebears or my Hoosier neighbors or the
more virtuous poets or some such, but Trump throws these haymakers
all around me, left and right, up and down, past my head,
behind my back, and he never hits me, he’s too chickenshit
to make good on his threat but he has to make a big show of
appearing to be a tough guy, and …
maybe that was the point of the dream, you know?
Maybe I wanted to tell myself something about Trump
that was already patently obvious to all of us, I mean,
that could’ve been it, that could’ve been why my head
went through all of that. Jesus. What a waste.

Poets Respond
September 27, 2016

[download audio]

__________

Steve Henn: “I don’t know if you’re tired of election-cycle poems. This dream happened after discussing The Bachelor with a former student and, among other election cycle crap stuffed into my consciousness, the question of whether or not Johnson or Stein will get to debate was part of my ‘newsfeed.’ It was a featured issue on the profile of Johnson on 60 Minutes on Sunday.” (website)

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March 25, 2015

Steve Henn

SLURRY CLEANSE

So I start running into this guy
at the bar I go to on non-kid days after work,
old buddy of my older brother, nice guy, still lives here
in the town where we grew up, like me.
We talk about food, his work, my work, his family,
my family, pop culture, politics, religion, whatever
—it’s cool. I dig. I like the guy alright.
But the last time he popped up on the stool beside mine
at the Downtown, he busts out with, or rather he mutters
fast, as the fast mutter appears to be his preferred method
of utterance—“I’mgonnadoa slurrycleanse,
yousitinthisslurry, this allnaturalmixture,
takesallthe toxinsoutofyourbody, it even takes care
of your colon, Iknow, you’relaughing, it’sweird, Igetit,
but they gave me half off. I’m gonna try it, it
takes3hours, theytellmeafterwardsI’llfeelgreat.”
And I do laugh, I can’t help laughing,
trying to imagine what kind of hippy mumbo-jumbo
goes into whatever vat of all-natural ingredients he plans
to immerse himself in—nothing against hippies, I like hippies,
at least the ones with jobs, like Ben and Jerry,
but it kinda makes me wonder, if they have jobs,
are they still hippies? BUT ANYWHO
I imagine this sludge of blueberry skins, flaxseed oil,
banana peels, shredded Tarot cards, oil of bergamot, the foreskins
of several properly circumcised Jewish babies—one can only imagine
the healing powers of beeswax, sea salt, locust husks, dead dictator
moustache hairs … The conversation moved on, but later,
after I’d come home to let the dog out and turn up records
loud enough to make the house feel less empty,
which is a volume that can’t really be reached,
I have this flashback-epiphany. Wait. Hold on.
“It even takes care of your colon?”
My man is gonna sit in a tub of vegetable juices
Wiccan sweat and fossilized mastodon DNA for three hours
and it will EVEN EVACUATE HIS COLON,
and this is supposed to be a pleasant sensation, stewing
in his own solids among the various liquids, letting
that septic cocktail mix and fume by the hour,
in this pigswill mudbath of his own excrement
and certifiably organic non-GMO watermelon seeds?
He’ll come out smelling like he just met up with Pepé Le Pew
at a big city bathhouse. I might try it, too, though.
I mean, hell, for half off.

from Rattle #46, Winter 2014

__________

Steve Henn: “For a time I kept running into my brother’s old buddy at the bar. Every once in a while he’d preface a story with ‘now, don’t make fun of me, but …’ His commitment to going through the slurry cleanse was one such story. I never did find out if he went through with it.” (web)

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