Pete Hammer (and friends)
in the off season, my thoughts drift back to those warm
days of summer, and I find myself standing in the kitchen, trying to
simple words the hot, steamy, rising— Yes, have you ever
noticed? No matter
what the word set is, somehow, all the poems seem to end up about sex.
maybe that's just my
circle of friends’ fridges...
test this, I tried this theory on my girlfriend Terri.
inevitable,” I said, “isn’t all art about sex?”
she corrected me, “all art is about love.”
I hedged, “same thing, in the world of refrigerator
poetry. After all,” I went on, “it isn’t about
what does this have to do with hang gliding, you ask? Well, what I
realized then was that the second
subject on my and my friends’ fridges is flying. Maybe because most of
my friends hang glide... Not that any of it is ‘high
art’, so-to-speak, or even any good as poetry; and
nor should one expect it to be. There is after all the excuse that
only so much possible with the limited word set that comes in that
box—or boxes (they do seem to multiply—hmmm...) But
the snippets that seem to
stay up there on the fridge are heartfelt, in a proletarian, yearning,
ground-bound sort of way.
here for your reading pleasure, is a sample of some of
the juicier (flying) fragments from me and my friends’