This was a Poem I wrote in my Creative writing class about 2 years ago. We had to pick a poet and emulate his style. I picked David Kirby. He writes in a very stream-of-consciousness style. He jumps back and forth from one thought to the next without with little transition. I liked it because the Poety focused almost entirely on imagery rather than rhyme and rhythm. His writing reads like a short story without a plot. The speaker character was also pretty obviously inspired by A&P by John Updike. Anyway have a read.
Identity - Style of Kirby
I had been working in the Giant for 3 years,
Watching people file into the register lines,
Like some sort of lame amusement park ride,
This particular day, these two bloodthirsty soccer moms
Were fighting over who got in the express register line first.
The winner of the bout had four items.
She quickly put her items up and stared at my name badge.
“Hi, Lester.” she said as if she knew me.
My name wasn’t Lester. I started wearing the fake badge
After my brother stopped working there.
Lester had dirty blond hair, tall but scrawny physique, and these
Piercing blue eyes. I could have passed for his twin.
When I wore my own name badge, everybody still called me Lester,
And this was about two years after he left the store.
It reminds me of these video game tournaments I used to go to.
Everybody had some pseudonym they would go by.
People would call each other names like Velocity or Pimp Knight
Or whichever goofy name they could come up with.
Imagine eavesdropping on a conversation where the speakers
Refer to each other as Deadly Pants and Trailer Park,
And do this with a completely straight face.
Some of the gamers have known each other for years
And still had no idea what their friend’s real names were.
So I get the first soccer mom checked out
And the second starts putting her things on the belt.
There is a big sign saying, ‘15 Items or Less.’
This lady has about 40. So she complains to me about
The audacity of the woman in front of her.
Cutting in line so she doesn’t have to wait like “the rest of us”.
She goes on about how the first lady probably gets a kick
Out of disrespecting others people’s business.
She appeared to be an expert on first impressions.
For some reason, people confide in their cashiers.
I should put part time shrink on my resume.
So I fake caring, get her through the line, end my shift, and go to the bar.
So there I am, drinking with my identical brother,
When this recognizable looking guy comes up to me,
“Traband, what’s up?” The use of my last name
Signifies a high school acquaintance.
My mind races thinking of his name.
Bill, no, Chris no, Eric no, Ed yes.
“Hi Ed,” I say. I have no idea who this guy is.
All I have is a name with a face and a shared experience.
We talk for an hour, reminiscing about teachers, students and cafeteria food.
Through this conversation, I learn nothing about Ed.
He is a familiar stranger, a common phantom.
We talk to each other like best of friends.
I can see the same look of confused nostalgia on Ed’s face,
And we converse for the night’s remainder.
Identity - Style of Kirby
I had been working in the Giant for 3 years,
Watching people file into the register lines,
Like some sort of lame amusement park ride,
This particular day, these two bloodthirsty soccer moms
Were fighting over who got in the express register line first.
The winner of the bout had four items.
She quickly put her items up and stared at my name badge.
“Hi, Lester.” she said as if she knew me.
My name wasn’t Lester. I started wearing the fake badge
After my brother stopped working there.
Lester had dirty blond hair, tall but scrawny physique, and these
Piercing blue eyes. I could have passed for his twin.
When I wore my own name badge, everybody still called me Lester,
And this was about two years after he left the store.
It reminds me of these video game tournaments I used to go to.
Everybody had some pseudonym they would go by.
People would call each other names like Velocity or Pimp Knight
Or whichever goofy name they could come up with.
Imagine eavesdropping on a conversation where the speakers
Refer to each other as Deadly Pants and Trailer Park,
And do this with a completely straight face.
Some of the gamers have known each other for years
And still had no idea what their friend’s real names were.
So I get the first soccer mom checked out
And the second starts putting her things on the belt.
There is a big sign saying, ‘15 Items or Less.’
This lady has about 40. So she complains to me about
The audacity of the woman in front of her.
Cutting in line so she doesn’t have to wait like “the rest of us”.
She goes on about how the first lady probably gets a kick
Out of disrespecting others people’s business.
She appeared to be an expert on first impressions.
For some reason, people confide in their cashiers.
I should put part time shrink on my resume.
So I fake caring, get her through the line, end my shift, and go to the bar.
So there I am, drinking with my identical brother,
When this recognizable looking guy comes up to me,
“Traband, what’s up?” The use of my last name
Signifies a high school acquaintance.
My mind races thinking of his name.
Bill, no, Chris no, Eric no, Ed yes.
“Hi Ed,” I say. I have no idea who this guy is.
All I have is a name with a face and a shared experience.
We talk for an hour, reminiscing about teachers, students and cafeteria food.
Through this conversation, I learn nothing about Ed.
He is a familiar stranger, a common phantom.
We talk to each other like best of friends.
I can see the same look of confused nostalgia on Ed’s face,
And we converse for the night’s remainder.