Yesterday NPR featured the debut work of Brian McGackin, a self-described “Broet Laureate” who uses the medium to speak from his heart about weighty topics like Xbox 360, Mama Celeste’s Frozen Pizza, and “any movie starring Bruce Willis.” McGackin is responsible for recent book of poems titled, Broetry: Poetry for Dudes, and for that we salute him. We’ve included a few of his poems below, beginning with a haiku that asks one of the serious questions of the ages and then move onto some stanzas about video games, cold beer, unemployment, and malaise; all are manly odes that give us a window into the life of the contemporary American dude. So read on, dear readers, and let us know in the comments section if you have a broem or bro-iku to share with us.
“Why Do Buses Smell?”
The young girl asks her
mother. I listen, because
I want to know, too.
“Final Final Fantasy”
I will not spend one hundred and thirteen
hours of my life on a video game
ever again. I will not rationalize,
claiming that it is somehow “research” for
my future career as a comic book
writer. I will not allow myself to be
sucked beyond the event horizon of an
RPG situated on a distant
planet, no matter how good the graphics are
on the nubile female lead character’s chest.
I will no longer waste my time seeking out
arbitrary unlockable achievements.
I am going to start beating games faster.
I have finished
that was in
you were probably
this girl came over
and so hot
I am making eggs, and waking up much
earlier than I would normally choose, and
also leaving the apartment in the morning,
before the slits of light shining through
the blinds would have naturally blinded me
awake anyway, and now that I mention it,
I am leaving the apartment at all, which I
am loath to do these days, since I am
jobless, prospectless, hopelessly skirting
around inevitable acceptance of the fact
that I might have to take a position less
than perfect for my particular skill set,
i.e., I am flat fucking broke, folks, and can
no longer afford to leave the peace and
relatively inexpensive quiet of my slowly
mold-growing cave of a home, but I go,
and not only do I go, I go to drink beer, lots
of beer, and I go to eat chicken fingers, and
most likely mozzarella sticks, and maybe wings
if someone else orders wings; I go spend
money, because it is Sunday, it is fall, it is football.
Excerpted from Broetry by Brian McGackin. Copyright 2011 by Brian McGackin.