Robert Donohue

Twin Peaks is Why I Cut my Hair

“A writer” was the answer that I gave:
“Then you should write while you are getting stoned.”
Was his advice, and judging by the way
I dressed, and how I wore my hair, you could
See why. I was a hippie then, yet balked
At his suggestion, smoking weed was not
My thing, although I sampled it, of course,
But found I didn’t really like it much.
I was, however, into far-out stuff,
Like poetry and old philosophy,
So people wondered what I planned to do
For a career, that’s why he asked. As smart
As I could be, I struggled with health class
And with computer lab, and when I held
Onto my writing dream: “Like Stephen King?”
Would be the second chance he offered me,
But after having rebuffed smoking pot,
And shrugging off the name of Stephen King,
I would remain a mystery to him:
“Most people need a joint to be like you.”
He would concede. He was intelligent,
And went to a good school, where he would get
Busted for selling acid to the frats,
His out-look being more clear-eyed than mine.

Around this time there was a turning point
Which came from no place deeper than TV.
Twin Peaks premiered, and almost overnight
There was a change that everyone could feel:
Weird stuff was now okay, and I believed
That Special Agent Cooper was the coolest,
That poetry and old philosophy
Would be his things, but what I envied most
Would be his hair; I had to have his hair,
With hair like his then I could be a poet!
To get mine cut, I went to Joe the barber,
He sympathized with statements made with hair,
And of it went, my badge of hippiedom,
To be replaced with slickness and pomade.
This was my first time changing with the times,
As for my writing, you are reading this,
And for Twin Peaks, there was that second season,
And people went on thinking I was high
When I was not, no matter how I looked,
Yet this was still a moment, and was full
Of what bright promise any moment holds.


In the Booth

He lived his life, and you would cross a line
To find the habitat he flourished in,
And even though we hoped he would begin
Anew, he let us down, time after time,
And when he dabbled in an actual crime
We made excuses, calling it the sin
We gave forgiveness, like his chance to win
A numbers game had come, yet more sublime.

If up to him, then he would fool around,
And just as carelessly a song was sung
As he would burn through liver, brain, and lung,
That was the way he would produce his sound,
But through it all we prayed he also found
A ladder there, which had a bottom rung.

Robert Donohue’s poetry has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, The Font and Oddball Magazine, among others. He lives on Long Island, NY.