Poetry by Corbin Louis

                         Matt Niemi CC



Happy Friday

When it’s Friday it’s Friday, you know the feeling right?
The sun’s beaming out dead clear like a sharp shooter
and I’m coming fresh off the sidelines, back to the court
Back to the lion’s den denizen of the north with razor tongues
I feel a pure weekend spark, like a chimney, like a shiny robot
or brand new dog whistle only heard by the best of em
Oh love that weekend spell, otherwise declared bobsled
I got a girlfriend named Rally Queen and a mosh pit to attend
So hear ye to the bovine, wakeup call and salutations, libations
revoked,  it’s time for me to drink it all, including the scum
bag nectar of worn down and aimless weekends I spent
shooting satellite reports like junk monsters directly into the
face, I saw it last night, Thursday 1am, Seattle folks with needles
sticking into their cheeks, and today Friday, for better or worse
that same unhinged jaw that follows me into another landslide
I stand, in both opposition and alliance, to the worst parts of 
my damaged brain, I stand in honor and disgrace, of chop shop
getaways, of putting my own desires above rule and authority
because all hail sleeping in, and all hail the sun, even if it doesn’t shine 
for us, us bodily accidents walking the highways like cretin comebacks
Not everyone is cut out to be a survivor, but to the ones who are 
To the ones who know that feeling, time bomb defused in the last 
3 seconds, to the ones who raise their little boney hands skyward 
to feel the heat, to the ones who live, who kick drum into Monday
and fight their own superstitions, to you, I say cheers

​



What We Did

what wayside     laughter     that spread out     took us as
new under the lights     fully cranked     in the empty stadium
I pretend to see     your red cheek     in the blooming of spring
by a bench I retraced     out of a need to feel     those things
evaporated     just like I will be     but before then the violin
and the astroturf     and the too cold breeze through your
car window     rolled down because we were smoking cigarettes
and the pep talk     you gave     coated my throat     and how 
did it     and how can I     trust myself     after forgetting so much
but some smells remain     your sticky skin     in unwashed sheets
11 days straight     smoking tar and fucking     to the final thin
orgasm     that did not take us where     we wanted to go but
still     we go     just beyond     and still we go     to where we
don’t and can’t     but we did     once     make love on the roof
and split a french fry     with ketchup on each end     we did
once     and twice     hold the sky for hostage     and said look
this is ours     pretending it could be     and now there’s no
once again     and now there’s no confirmation     of the time
we walked barefoot in the creek by your house     there is no
how old were we     because I’m not sure     and no one else
saw what we did     shared breathing     sitting there in the sun

​

Corbin Louis is an artist with deep roots in Seattle’s slam poetry and DIY music culture. His work is an ode to survival. From addiction to chronic pain, Corbin staggers on. He rises against the odds and writes poetry to advocate for the radical fight of enduring disability. By embracing performance at age 13 Corbin established his voice in 2008 at the International Youth Poetry Slam ‘Brave New Voices’ filmed by HBO. The artist went on to earn a MFA at the University of Washington Bothell, a Jack Straw Residency, and multiple publications and film festival screenings including Best American Experimental Writing, Button Poetry and the Visible Poetry Project. The authors seeks to open up dialogues of mental illness. Ink becomes war call. Reflections. Salt water and whispers. The poet lives.

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