edited by Sean Enfield
Spiderweb Salon’s next featured poet is longtime friend and collaborator, Nate Logan. Though Nate now resides in Indianapolis, he still sends his love to the collective, and we fondly remember his “booty sonnets” from the early days of Spiderweb.
Recently, Nate announced his debut poetry collection, Inside the Golden Days of Missing You, will be released through Magic Helicopter Press (fun fact: their founder happens to be one of our dearly beloved Patreon subscribers!) this Fall. Per the Magic Helicopter Press site, “With the kiss of a knuckleballer and a heart of gravy, Nate Logan’s full-length poetry debut is sweet to its friends and squinting at the clouds. Ready to feel any which way besides a haunted lumberyard, bee-lining toward the finger sandwiches of Midwestern self-reflection. The sky needs a good lint-rolling. On the ostrich festival gates is a note that reads: I’M SORRY.”
YES. While we eagerly await getting our hands on a copy of that collection, today we are excited to feature Nate’s poem, “We’re an American Band.” Nate wrote the poem over the course of the last year as an exercise in crafting a longer poem. He says his routine is set for writing only one day a week which may be “blasphemy for some, but it works for [him].”
Now, without further ado, here is Nate Logan’s epic (in the classical sense) poem, “We’re an American Band”...
We’re an American Band
Jane is not-so-secretly into
restless leg syndrome. I’m
meticulously ordering toast
when I realize the covert life
is one creak of the floor away
from discovery. The newspaper
doesn’t help. I squint so hard
at the metro section, it’s like duh.
I take my coffee with two creams.
Like that even matters.
The spelunking couple felt wary
about a cave until they came across
an albino moose. It was a blessing
they lacked all their lives. Next door,
Christmas lights were still blinking,
despite the city’s best efforts. New spices
were discovered with little fanfare.
A pothole was given its own area code
for obvious reasons. No one’s worried
about an uptick of unexplained toe injuries.
I’m an acclaimed thespian with a heart of gravy.
An unseen stagehand this close to dropping the curtain.
Cued up pyrotechnics across town on the riverfront.
The answering machine voted most anxiety-inducing
since 1984. I could tell a joke here, but I don’t know
if the weather is appropriate. Spending weeknights
painting sports cars while the famous poet’s robe
lies on the bed, starring in a movie of its own. Or
hanging on the bathroom door? I started a book I
couldn’t finish. I started a book that finished me.
I high-five each cornstalk as I slip
into the night’s paint sample. Folding
in half is the first magic trick I learned
and so Midwestern. A purple sky
can only mean…It’s all in slow motion
when you stop and think about it.
Basically, never wear shorts on an airplane.
Line dance through the metal detector.
Something falls on the floor
and everyone pretends not to see it.
I don’t like it either, I said
with the velocity of a knuckleball.
Guantanamo Baywatch on TV
so we had a backup laugh track.
“Let me get one thing straight,”
my dog walker was saying.
The days had been cloudy, but
this was the cloudiest so far.
It takes little prodding for our spirits
to rise and bump into the banister.
The final round trivia answer caused
more than a few noses to bleed. God
walks into the Bingo hall and stop me
if you’ve heard this one before. Once,
I invented my own beer pong move.
Now it’s lost to the water rings of history.
Rob is up there on the mountain not
playing beer bong because it expels
too much energy. He checks his reflection
in a butter knife, a family heirloom.
A suspicious signature on the apartment
lease. You could cut a rug on its sharp
lines. A scientist could explain it, but my degree
is in turf and golf course management.
I backpacked across the cul-de-sac, seeking
adventure. All I found were dachshund paws
under a wooden fence. More often than not,
thrill-seekers find this exact scene, or something
very close. A chipped, dilapidated baseball
diamond. Same-day lava flooring and installation.
The familiar riff followed Sarah from room
to room. It fit like a beloved pair of jeans
and made her look three inches taller. This was plain,
even from my vantage point “in the weeds.”
A faint hum is my alarm clock, but I’m not
the only one. The death of a bee has been
on my mind. Serious concerns at town hall
about a tanning bed that fell into the lake.
“Someone’s just gonna have to go in there,”
he said, gesturing at the mayor’s good ear.
The coffeehouse changed its name
(new management) to something less
punny and we’re all suffering for it.
The clientele shifted from phlebotomists
to new age healers. Abandoned sports socks
seem to litter the porch and my love life.
Mary has a knack for knowing when someone
on the ground looks up at the plane she’s on.
I swear I saw her waving once. Maybe I’m
telling myself, chewing on a candy cane.
On the mantle, a taxidermic platypus sits,
a thin layer of dust on its webbed feet. I
just came in to check on the scheme, get
the layout of the territories. Beach towels
stacked into a pyramid behind the desk—
I feel a breakout of freckles coming on.
A golden cigarette lighter the only sign
of life. Last night, the drummer practiced
the fishbowl, made a corresponding face.
Minor sniffles. We’re an American band.
Nate Logan was born and raised in Indianapolis, Indiana. His recent work appears in Dream Pop Journal, Forklift, Ohio, and Millennial Pink. He's editor and publisher of Spooky Girlfriend Press and teaches at Ivy Tech.
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