by Burnham, Bo
Oh my god. I’m gonna make myself…
I’m gonna…
Fucking Golgi!
Fuck!
I’m gonna…….
I’mmm gonnnnnnnnaaaa
Beautiful
You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
And I know that.
But I can’t rediscover it every fucking day.
I can’t return to that epiphany every time my alarm clock goes off.
It’s unnatural.
But what I can do, and do quite naturally, is become jaded and unimpressed by it.
I can see your beauty as normal, as one of my life’s many constants.
I can climb atop its shoulders and travel about, rolling my eyes at sunsets and rainbows, dismissing all the beauty of the world as less than average.
And I complain to you about it.
And you can deduce your beauty from that.
Relax
Let your hands relax by your sides.
Let your chin rest gently on your chest.
Let each new breath fill you with calm.
Let your mind wander away to a faraway place.
Let me piss on your expensive shoes.
Let me empty your pockets of any valuables.
Let me escape this parking garage as you drift past some meadows or some shit.
Him
Ah, there he is.
That motherfucker.
What a tool.
Be Patient
Be patient, be patient.
Rome wasn’t built in a day.
It wasn’t built at all, in fact.
Rome self-assembled in reaction
to the people’s unwavering patience.
So be patient, be patient.
A Final Wish
Cremate me, please
and sprinkle my ashes,
pinch by pinch
on strippers’ eyelashes.
The Party
Only after that drunken late-night congress had dispersed and the music had stopped and the walls had caught their breath and the smug fog of dialogue had condensed on the empty glasses, only then did I notice how unhappy you were.
The strobe light had given me stale, unusable snapshots.
Even if I had seen some struggle on you, somewhere, I would have mistook it for simple social rigmarole as everyone’s behavior reeked of performance.
And only after that night had given into the next day, and I had stood where you had danced so cautiously, and I had imagined you sitting in that chair that still
bared my imprint, only then did I realize why you felt that way.
Change
I don’t expect
to change your mind
with one conversation,
only to chip away at it,
like a woodpecker on a redwood tree.
Rock
Rock on,
indie rocker!
Rock
those bongos!
Rock
that weird African instrument that you purchased on that private school field trip.
Rock on
about that girl who left you because she got tired of struggling to get your skinny jeans off.
Rock on
about the poetry of the universe, armed with the knowledge you gained by skimming a Wikipedia article on quantum mechanics.
Rock on
about pain and addiction (itchy beards and clove cigarettes, respectively).
Rock
against the labels.
Rock
against the system.
Rock
against the world.
Rock
against rocking.
Rock.
A Wonderful Day to Be Dead
What a perfect day to be gone and forgotten.
What a wonderful day to be dead.
Six feet above me, the world’s gone rotten
while I’m rottin’ in a coffin instead.
You’ll die one day and that day could be
any one of the thousands ahead,
but I can guarantee that that day will be
a wonderful day to be dead.
Up Above
From my window seat, the world looks so tiny,
the cities so adorably ordered.
Makes me realize just how insignificant people are
and just how godlike I am.
Roller Coaster
Our love was a roller coaster.
It had ups and downs and I sat real close to her.
It had a real slow climb and a real quick drop.
I screamed “faster” and she begged it to stop.
I put up my hands and she held on tight.
Not a second of boredom on our rickety flight.
And when it came to a stop at that first safer place, I said, “Let’s do it again,” and she puked in my face.
The Pussy
The pussy has become overwhelming.
It’s tumbling out of every suitcase,
whirring beneath every floorboard.
Who thought the pussy could become so cumbersome?
It stacks against my front door like fresh snow, presses its lips against the glass of my kitchen window like an inmate’s wife would do with her regular face lips.
Where the world was once empty, it is now pussy— as if I’m trying to measure the atmosphere’s volume by means of pussy displacement.
Offence
They let gays marry
and I took offense to that;
then my brother got gay-married
and I took a fence to that.
Wooden Soldiers
I bought a box of wooden soldiers.
I bought them from the store.
And now a hundred tiny soldiers
guard my bedroom floor.
So if you’re a scary monster-thing
who wants to go to war,
my bedroom door is open.
I’m not frightened anymore.
Walk with Me
Walk with me now if you would or wouldn’t mind or would mind not walking someone as I would.
Speak to me now if you must or mustn’t be quiet or must’ve forgotten something important as I must’ve.
Stay with me now if you can or can’t decide or can’t not stay with someone, anybody,
as I can’t.
Fixed
I gouged my eyes out
only to find another much better
pair behind them.
Listen
You’re nothing, Special.
On the Virg
I saw the Virgin Mary in my toast this morning.
She was delicious.
I Don’t Give a Fuck
I. Don’t. Give. A. FUCK.
Never have, brah. Never will, dude.
You upset? Good! ’Cause I don’t give a fuck!
I dress like I don’t give a fuck.
I read in a magazine that women find that attractive.
It’s probably true, but I don’t give a fuck.
People ask me,
“Whoa man, cool outfit, is it hard not giving a fuck?”
Yes. It’s very hard. But it’s like, fuck it, you know?
I won’t start giving a fuck just because it’s hard to not give a fuck. You may give a fuck but don’t you go trying to make me start giving a fuck.
Or do.
’Cause I don’t give a FUCK!
When I die, I won’t give a fuck.
People will remember me for that.
They’ll probably write books about me and build monuments in my name. But I won’t give a fuck.
I’ll be dead.
But even if I was alive, I still wouldn’t give a fuck.
I’d walk past the giant library built in my honor and just roll my eyes.
An attractive woman would see all this happen and she would turn to her friend and say— “See that guy? He doesn’t give a fuck. See that library? It’s named after that guy who doesn’t
give a fuck. Ooooh, he’s kinda sexy.”
Youth vs. Man
Hey, look! It’s the Youth.
The Youth is fighting the Man.
How cute. Get him, Youth! Get him!
Yikes, that was quick.
You’ll get him next time!
Fishing
It’s unfortunate that the word for “catching fish by piercing their lips with hooks and dragging them onto a boat” is called fishing.
To the fish, fishing means something different. To fish is to live, to love, to be.
When the more aggressive fish find a lonely swimming human and rip the flesh from its stupid bones—that’s called peopling.
The Future
I reckon (don’t discredit me due to the elderly start) that in the future, in the far future, if all goes well, two gay fathers will disown their son because their son wants to marry his clone.
“It’s unnatural!” they’ll scream.
“It’s an abomination!” they’ll cry.
The son and his clone will run away together, beside themselves, armed only with love.
They will hide in scrapyards and motel rooms until the bigotry passes, as it always does.
Whole
He poked his penis all over her skin,
pensively feeling for an easy way in.
This man, with his fractal and fragmented soul,
finally felt hole and finally felt whole.
I Can’t Stand Trees
I can’t stand trees.
They’re a bit too theatrical.,
They act all dramatic, no static, all radical.
All “Hey, look at me” All “Hey, I’m a tree”
All “Hey, stump boy, do you like what you see?”
And I reply, “No! You limp-limbed lug!
You winter leaflet littering bug.
With towering branches and cowering roots, devouring sunshine and showering fruits.
It’s a war they want? Then a war I’ll wage.
I’m writing this on paper just to waste”
…a fucking page.
Old
I’m old and cold and out of time,
thirteen years far past my prime.
Weary legs from life’s steep climb,
I can barely walk let alone think of a fourth word.
Dating
I’m a gargoyle.
Stuck.
Outdated.
And pretty fucking weird looking.
You’re an angel.
Free.
Immortal.
And pretty fucking weird looking, too.
Cyclops
The women ran screaming when the Cyclops blinked.
If only they’d known he’d actually winked.
Sea Monkeys
Look at those sea monkeys puttering around their bowl.
Yesterday, they were a sugar packet and now they’re sea monkeys.
What a dumb miracle.
Dust into animated dandruff.
I’ve never found the incomprehensible quite this boring.
All that talk about life
and I got a cheap magic trick.
Knots in the Grass
I spend most of my day outside, crouched to the earth, tying knots in the grass.
I spend most of my year traveling, looking for fields or front yards, tying knots in the grass.
If you find a knot, you find me,
as I am the only thing tying knots in the grass.
Her Eyes
Her eyes were like fire.
They weren’t red or anything.
Not particularly warm, either.
They didn’t glow or “appear to glow,”
whatever that means.
But they had that same strange blend of familiar and miraculous— and they were always nice to look at after a long day of doing things.
Hobgoblin
Did you see what the neighborhood hobgoblin did?
On Halloween night, he dressed as a kid!
Fuck in the Woods
Let’s fuck in the woods, sweetheart.
Wood to wood, ass to grass,
hands clasped, limbs grasped,
humping parts while nature sways, licking butts where reindeer graze.
Let’s toil, uncoiled, in the soil, soiled.
Broiled in baby oil (tree sap’s foil).
Let’s flirt with the earth,
with rubber to avert birth
and darkness to assert girth,
no shirt or skirt, just squirting in dirt.
Let’s fuck in the woods.
Like
You’re like milk,
tasty and versatile.
You’re like a dog,
loyal and often mistaken.
You’re like New York,
large and in America.
You’re like my girlfriend,
female and actually my girlfriend.
Progress
I almost forgot about you today. A sizable spill of coffee shot me to my feet, holding up my mocha-soaked notebook like an unclaimed child. A dozen eyes found me at once—a security measure meant to bring shame to a klutz breaking his social contract. Attention for shit living. When the pain receded I stood in place and imagined you brushing your teeth.
Bustle
Writers like to talk about how things are or were “bustling.”
The market was bustling on a bustling street corner.
In a bustling bakery, the muffins bustled in the oven.
“Don’t worry, Rupert, the bus’ll be bustling by in five minutes”
I mean, I get it.
Bustle is a good word.
It makes total sense.
Whenever I’m in a group of more than three people, all I can hear in my head is bustle, bustle, bustle, bustle.
I say it to myself, silently, even when people appear
to be trying to start a
conversation with me.
A cute girl may be right in front of me, looking at my face and mouthing sounds, but all I can think of is
bustle, bustle, bustle, bustle.
You There
Hey, you there.
Me?
Yeah, you.
Yeah, me?
Yeah, you there.
Me there?
No, you there.
Oh, me here?
Yeah, you there.
So, me?
Yeah. Hey, you there.
Hey what?
Hey.
Hey.
You well?
Yeah, you?
Me?
Yeah, you.
Me what?
Well.
Me well?
No, are you?
Am I?
Yeah.
Am I what?
Well.
Am I well?
Yeah, you well?
Wait, do I well?
No, are you well?
Oh, am I well?
Yeah.
No.
Forever and an Instant
Forever and an instant met up one day,
had a short but lovely talk,
then each went on its way.
Third Person
He’s talking in the third person again.
Look at him,
talking to himself,
about himself,
as if he’s talking to someone else
about someone else.
He’s about to speak.
“Hey! You”
Wait, he can’t do that.
He can’t address “him” as “you.”
He is “him.”
“HEY! YOU”
Wait a second…
yes?
Acknowledgments
Thank you Richard, Ben, Pippa, and everyone at Grand Central Publishing. I am so grateful.
Thank you to the teachers who inspired me—Mrs. Burridge, Mr. Furlong, and many others.
And to George Carlin and Shel Silverstein.
And Chance. Thank you.
—Bo Burnham Thank you to my family, Penelope, Abbie, Allan, Lori, Ross, Wendy, Phil, Mickie, and Jennifer; the Theatre School; Ha Ha Tonka; Mrs. Aid, Mr. Smith, and Mrs. Reinholdt, who encouraged me to draw on my homework.
And thank you to Bo. He sure is nice for being so tall.
Big love to you all.
—Chance Bone
Stuck
I’m stuck on this page and I want to break out.
So put me in your brain and walk about!
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication