2 Poems Evan Dashevsky


My credit report is a clean and sexy beast.


My credit report is a clean and sexy beast.
It has no blemishes worth more than a cursory glance
and posseses no exuberant purchases
existing very far
beyond my very humble means.
All debts are paid
in a full and timely manner,
and every time I’ve applied
for an extension of credit,
it has been approved
with little in the way
of corporate hesitation.
If my penchant for good credit
could be transformed
into a scalp full of luxurious hair
sitting atop a 6 foot 5 frame,
I would be Brad Pitt
and that German girl I was talking to on Saturday
would be the world,
inebriated on my every
whim and decision.
But, of course,
a credit report is just a credit report,
not sexy,
no matter how in good standing it is,
and certainly not fodder
for even the most drunken and inane
of barroom conversation.

Planet Slut.


Every year around this time
the earth and the sun
put their political differences aside,
get wasted on star dust and moonbeams
and start to smooch and make-out
in a vain and fruitless attempt
to facilitate some kind of meaning
to their seemingly random and ordinary placement
in the greater whole of the milky way.

It takes a few weeks,
but by April,
the sun has already begun stroking gently the ozone,
waiting for his chance to spread open the sky,
so he can unabashedly fondle terraflesh—
melting all the ice cream in Brooklyn in the process,
and bringing the Jersey shore to a steady boil.

By July “meaningless” has no meaning—
full-on coitus takes place on a daily basis,
every air conditioner on earth starts to hummmmm
and the two horny celestials
are easily able to pretend
that autumn will never arrive
and “February” was just a bad dream
that need not be mentioned
ever again.

But of course,
September will come to rear its horrible face and—
as it happens every September
since the time when Septembers began—
the allure of licking mountain tops
and rummaging fingers
through lover’s moist seas and forests
starts to run bare,
and the sun will start to fade,
leaving the earth to spin inward,
taking stock and attempting to reassure herself
as she prepares for another long, cold winter,
full of introspection.