Poems, thoughts, and the occasional sexy story.
The desperate horde hanged the mighty witch high — as she watched from behind, laughing, musing: “If I’m as mighty as they say, and so well-versed in dangerously Dark Arts, do they really think — can they really believe — this is over?” And so the mighty witch swayed in nature’s caress, seeding her folk with everlasting consequence before moving to California.
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There are STORIES, too — HERE.
She ate cotton candy and watched Seattle seabirds hold steady in nondescript movie-sound and almost forgot the scar he stretched around her heart before she died. Now, a thousand miles down-coast, California oceancoast, glass house above sunset sky — that’s where she’s always been, soft blanket, now, soft light — a story she likes, a dusky sea — her intransigence now just a word describing another mother, someone sad far far away.
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More poems? They’re HERE.
And then there are the BOOKS here.
When I ab and sunglass, trim, talk low-and-slow — pose an aging, faithful body against sunning sand and waves, breathless for perfection’s attention, I know: Brother, you’re not for me. When I’m empty, yet still scrape this darkening shell for one more acceptable pearl; when I pray dimmed sea-light and dusky stars right my crooked face, I know: Brother, you're not for me. But if on this patient winter’s beach we wander from books to pasts, honor quiet scars and funny ignorance, sandy jeans, faded flannel shirts warm against the LA cool; cheap beer; if you ask for another, eyes still on the page, and laugh a bit at my dancing disbelief: Brother, my answer is yes.
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Poems, the good ones, are small stories. See other stories here.
I couldn’t help it, leaving. It must be the way I’m made. They spoke God, said I'd wreck my soul with that abomination — so I chose the other tree, blue-green against the same sky, splashed its dark on my face and fell sound asleep as they raged beneath an equally good tree preparing for my salvation.
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If you like this, try some more here.
A collection or two? See Books here.
Sylvia’s ceiling was glass. She could see armed men perched above with orders to shoot anyone whose parts didn’t protrude. But that’s not how she fell into an oven. That happened when she realized, as all thinkers must, that thought itself is their enemy — not sex, not sin, but a single word: Why?
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The phone vibrates twenty-seven times between Beowulf and lunch. I snap each time. Students always know. They look at me carefully, compassionately. I dial the number. Wait. “What, Mom?” Labored intake: “Took you long enough.” She says the chicken’s spicy. She says she’s always alone. She says no one cares if she lives. She is my dying mother. I listen, stare at the wall, wait for the tears to subside. Beowulf. He had it easy. Monsters and a dragon? Any day.
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I can sense them, his old lovers, his old leavers, their cloves and smoke thick in threaded carpet, grease stains browning on unwashed paint. Other tenants, other times. Most pass through this station, moving up or down the home-hierarchy to new mortgage or penitentiary. I stay. His transience suits me; I never want more. He can only be rented, like everything else, really, pimped for profit. But I treat him well, I think, much better than the others. Every time I open the door, I tell him I’m lucky. I tell him he’s beautiful. Mine, but still his. I’m not jealous. He can think of Them when he’s with me; who am I to demand? I love him. He compares me to others, I know. They weren’t so dependent, so needy. He is who he is, and that’s okay. I have no claim, pay another for his company, sure that he won’t remember. Sure that I am not the last. That I’m grateful to have made his acquaintance.
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There are books. Great books. Here.
And poetry. Always poetry. Here.
What you discover after — after the battered “Yes, okay” to your heart’s direction — is that all of your guns that once shot enemies and fools are now trained and aimed at you. One Last Chance to apologize to recant to come home. So you write another poem as familiar bullets speed toward their mark.
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“Quick! They’re coming for you! Call down your god!” Oh, buddy, if you only understood. My god runs towards me, bayonet in hand, trying to scare me off, see if I turn. “Some god!” Yeah. My god. As I take a run at him.
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Like these? There’s more — all collected into a NEW BOOK! Click here!
Spend a day observing people.
Most of the time, it’ll be boring. But if we’re lucky, we’ll catch a glimpse of something we’re not meant to see. Pilots leave an apartment window open while waiting for flight attendants to arrive. We see their desperation. A man in a breezeway doesn’t think anyone is upstairs when he tries to get his dealer off his back, all while his little girl plays. The fratboy next door doesn’t know someone can hear everything — and wants him anyway. A whole political party shows its true colors.
These poems are dedicated to who we are when we’re on our own time — to the strange, laughable, heartbreaking, dangerous ways we do ourselves.
Want a sample? Click here.
More poems? Click here.
Or maybe a short story.
Lankershim Boulevard was better when Grammy took me to the Jewish Council Thrift Store to buy me an out-of-date Writer’s Market, and I looked up at her against the naked fluorescent tube lights, and wanted to write a story that would make her rich and me famous so that we wouldn’t have to shop at the Jewish Council Thrift Store again.
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There was once a time — you’ll have to trust me — when Dad would write notes for cigarettes and liquor, and off I’d go to Dales Jr. And then if I was fast, he'd give me a sip. It burned all the way down. Probably how I got so good at track.
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“I want you to stay away from that guy upstairs.” Old Shirley’s hair was frizzier than usual. She held a glass. “Something’s not right there.” “Okay, I will,” as I walked past her window down the driveway out onto Oxnard remembering how he held me to his chest and showed me I was happiness.
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Roam around the stories here. They’re pretty good.
G Beckman 