From the cover of Heavy Petting alone it is clear why women love Gregory Sherl so much: here we begin with a line drawing of a young boy cradling a cat that, while allowing itself to be held, is perhaps waiting to struggle away. It is a moment of terrible vulnerability, of opening one’s self up for love and physical connection that is, by the eyes of the cat soon to escape, terribly fleeting. It is this vulnerable intimacy which perfectly encapsulates what we learn throughout this collection: one is alone for all their love and their need to be loved.
And the loving of Gregory Sherl is a common theme in these poems, frankly and frequently sexual as they are, although often that sexuality is conflated with neurosis and pills, as in "OCD", where before We are both naked in the middle of the kitchen the narrator is found standing in / the middle of the kitchen, naked, my feet puddles / of water. There were no more clean towels, I say. It is a striking moment in the poem, lonely and helpless, that is only slightly disarmed by the resulting encounter on the kitchen floor. And this is a typical moment for the collection, although very often these conflations of sexuality occur in a more comic context.
The comedy of these poems is one of their more winning characteristics and in this way they are less, say, Sylvia Plath than they are Woody Allen. For just as Allen crafted a comic icon from his neurosis, his relationships, and his cultural heroes, so too Gregory Sherl crafts serious comedy out of his OCD, his relationships, and his own particular pop cultural heroes and villains. And as with a young Allen, many of the come-on lines in these poems are at once sweetly sexual and comically neurotic, lines like you are sexy like a disinfected doorway or the silly eroticism of "Be My Date": I want to smell the sound of you eating / my thighs, spread / like warm apple butter.
These confident come-on lines, these brazen sex acts, these disinfections and bloody rubbed hands accumulate and build in their repetition to a mock-mythology, and in this sense Sherl is a poet and a character creator and a self-mythologizer. Appropriately then some of the best of these poems blur fantasy and realistic confession, such as in "Basic Cable" where our Sherl character wakes to a live studio audience standing next / to my nightstand. The producer waves his arms and the audience / applauds and When you walk through the front door, the live studio audience applauds / When we kiss, the audience sighs. Some asshole coughs or in "Monster", which combines fantasy, neurosis, and sexuality to powerful effect: I am in love with her textured moans, her / long distance phone calls. She’s so gone they barely reach my chin. I have / cried so many days there is a river under my bed. The monster has grown / gills, webs between its toes. Pretty the monster says. How the sun creeps into a / lost heart eventually. A striking poem in excerpt but all the more striking in context, for part of the power of this poem comes from the accumulated weight of these moments, vibrating in from similar poems, similar lonely moments, and all the neurosis and personal demons this monster here echoes.
In "Master of Fine Arts" Sherl asserts his right to not be timeless, to write about Natalie Portman’s hips or Mel Gibson’s racism alongside his own insecurities and conquests, to fade quickly into the next moment, into the next poem. And, ironically, it is this assertion to individuality and momentariness that gives them so much of their power. In "Sad Love" Sherl writes of one relationship, it lasted as long as it needed to, and something similar can be said of Heavy Petting, which, while perhaps not timeless, is made weighty and strong by its own sad loves, and it will certainly last as long as it needs to.
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I was a little shy about asking. I thought I might not be able to get one. I called the Apple store and talked with Siri.
I said, “Siri, I’m tired of robogirls. I want something a little different.”
“Do you want a roboguy?”
“Don’t be silly—I like girls. I can’t help it—I’m made that way.”
“I know what you want.”
“Yes—you want a real girl.”
“That’s exactly what I want. I want a real girl.”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you ever had a real girl before?”
“Well, real girls are—unpredictable. I cannot guarantee that you will be happy.”
“Robogirls are predictable. That’s what I’m tired of. Send me a real girl this afternoon.”
“It doesn’t work that way. First, I’ll have to find a real girl who’s interested, and then I’ll have to let her pick the time when she can come.”
“You mean I have to wait?”
“Yes. If I can find one, she will call you. I can send you a robogirl this afternoon. Do you still want a real girl?”
“Yes. I’ll wait.”
Poem of the Week
who have experienced
on a large
i tell raif
i think my
might be dead
haven't seen her
& her car hasn't moved
for two weeks.
you would smell it
passing me a plate
of triangular shaped bread
slathered in jam.
Story of the Week
DARLEEN SQUEELED into the empty spot as soon as the gleaming white Mercedes pulled out. "We got lucky," she told Montana. "Even on a Monday night, this lot is killer."
Montana rolled her big blue eyes. "Whatever."
The eleven year old had better things to do, like text her friends. Incessantly, as if she had a tic. The kid hadn't wanted to shop tonight, but Darleen insisted. This was their first Christmas without Paulie and the girls needed to stick together. Darleen's ex had been nasty lately and mediation had hit a cement wall. Montana wasn't aware how dangerously close they were to losing access to Paulie's vast and unreported wealth.
Montana sighed dramatically as she yanked open the door of the Porsche Cayenne and tumbled out. She didn't pause in her texting.
Darlene checked her face in the rearview mirror. The most recent fat transfer had been wildly successful. She loved her new lips. Grabbing her Gucci bag, she hopped out of the front seat.
Her daughter trailed her into the mall, thumbs flashing on her phone keypad.