Two Poems

Christian Utigard

nobel prize committee of pants

those pants are sick. holy shit those pants look great. haha, i love those pants. those pants make me want to go to my happy place.

my happy place is a pants emporium. all types of pants are here. pants, short pants, hot pants, trousers, harem styled pants. shorts, jorts. in my pant mind palace, i walk along a large industrial room with pants lined up on hangers. ordered by colour, style, fabric, and other eye pleasing variations. i take out my hand, close my eyes. i walk at a brisk pace straight ahead, and i let my hand trail over the different pants, sort of like maximus decimus meridius walking through a field of wheat or barley, brushing his hand, really emphasising on that feeling. in a normal mind palace pants emporium, there would be a musty smell. this place is free of that. only pants. and hangers. i walk up to the big office, where i have a large window overseeing all the pants down below. there is a large picture frame on one of the walls. a large ornamental frame in gold, and within it, a pair of red plaid pants. a plaque beneath it says “worn by notable people throughout history”. safe to say i am right now waiting for someone to wear them. i don’t want to wear them. i am not a notable person; i am just holding onto the pants. i am the nobel prize committee of pants.

we stop for coffee, in the redwood forest

your partner has fallen asleep. head resting. clutching onto a pack of red vines that ultimately will fall onto the car floor and join the other wrappers. you drive past a large illuminated sign. if you had stopped here, you would have heard the buzzing of lamps like these. you don’t stop though. you stop half an hour later. you piss in the shoulder of the road. turn your gaze, watching the still very long stretch. you think “imagine if i had to start my drive all over, right now, that driving here has only been a dream. that in the state i am in right now, having to power through this entire trip i’m half way on”. nothing has changed, really.

the yellow light in your car against the black-turning-blue outside. you go back in. rev the engine. you go back out. have to check the trunk. you get this urge to go lie in the trunk. you get an urge to pick small rocks and weeds, fill the bottom of the trunk. you get an urge to make yourself a tight terrarium, close the lid and just sleep. you think that if you will become a trunk person, you would like it to be dark and cool, and that you would hear a muffled sound. the sound of wxkp3 – classic rock wichita.

“lincoln duncan is my name
and here’s my song, here’s my song”

when you go back into the car your partner has woken up. looks at you with tired eyes. “have i slept long? how far is little rock?”

little rock is ways off. just some farms in the distance. field upon field. little rock is far off. you dream of arkansas.