Mindloop
Today, the number 58
threatened to ruin everything.
Let's rewind: 5 + 8 = 13, you understand,
and that—that is bad news. Bad, bad, bad.
If I can somehow roll a 27,
that might remedy the situation.
You see, not only is 27 good, good—
but 27 + 13 = 40, which is
extra good. Very, very good!
Wait a second—or five, or ten.
I question my daemon and get no response.
Name the fear, risk it, I tell myself
(I'd been working up the courage
all afternoon), and I do.
The numbers loaf about,
rent-free, but eventually quiet down.
I hear passing cars, the
low drawl of the diesel heater.
We're all going for ice cream.
Spencer Eckart
Spencer Eckart is a hybrid poet with work published or forthcoming in Trampset, Ghost City Review, Apocalypse Confidential, and elsewhere.
Why this Knocked Martheaus Out:
I love me an odd poem, and I love me a poem about play. The "oddness" here on a craft level comes out because of the order information is given, the line breaks, the tone, and how your speaker plays with the die-rolling system. It's a captivating start with that stanza because we haven't been let in on the die-rolling, role-playing game reference. Another surprise comes with the final lines--which are my personal favorite lines of the poem: "I hear passing cars, the / low drawl of the diesel heater. / We're all going for ice cream." It's not just "slice of life," it's so specific in what it's choosing to let us in on.
Interview:
Why did you choose Team Martheaus for this poem?
Mar’s description read like a bat signal for the freaks. I couldn’t resist.
Role-playing games and poetry seems like such a great connection that I don't typically see in poetry. The specific focus on the numbers is also interesting. Could you talk on what the comparisons you see the poem discussing about our game lives and our "real lives" or if you see that division.
Yeah, this is a great question. I used to be super into RPGs, and honestly, a lot of my compulsive thinking plays out like an imaginary numbers game. Rather than a divide between game and real, it’s more about the games my mind plays in the grips of an episode. The poem explores that process—how those patterns appear and eventually unravel on their own accord.
I hear a lot about "escapism"--how art and play can be ways to alleviate our stresses. I wonder if you could write about this "fear" that the speaker is holding, or speak about how the play and poem can be places of escape.
Sure! I don’t really see writing as escape. For me, it's meeting things as they are. Wendell Berry has this great line: “make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came." Sometimes poems from that place turn out zany or playful, like this one, yet still confront a lived reality. Most of our fears have no basis in that reality. Writing fundamentally heals by revealing this.