Poems, thoughts, and stories.
I studied the bar for possible moods — what was the one I felt yesterday, right after the Manhattan? Was that CareFreeMelancholy? or CitySad mixed with WindSweptLoneliness? WoeIsMe? No. Wait. I sent that first one back, got a TallBud and rode AwesomeConvo and his wingman, BroLove into the land of FuckAin’tItSolid! Or was that the AMF?
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That ladybug sits on that green leaf before its silken buzzy wings remind me I was somewhere too. — “What were you saying?”
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Library of Memory, finger on the spines that hold together me. Oh, I do not like this book! (Though I’ve read it a thousand times.) I was too young to understand. How was I to know? (I knew.) One night sags the shelf that ought to be in the Restricted Section (like the old days, when you had to ask for the books with drawings). These spines are warped. Horrible! I move on. My, this one is beautiful. Just look at its golden cover: “Full of greeting cards and fairy tales.” Here, I learn right from wrong and begin to build My Best Self. Things work out in this book (just like a Hollywood movie). Grandma really likes it. I really should read it someday. But they said I could take out only one. Maybe this one? Bright and Sunny Days? And there are other rooms, futures I’ve never visited, a place for faith. Philosophy. I really should… as I bow my head, reach for Mistakes and turn to you.
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“You should call security.
These homeless people.”
But there was something else,
some bit of sadness —
“...always think it’s tragic
when I’m the one paying rent...”
— behind still-hopeful eyes,
as a silly heart-shaped balloon
floated forward, started to sag.
“in our building? Was he good looking?”
What?
His eyes shut mine
against the breach.
So much to give
as you focus parts,
abs and arms alone,
always.
But those weighted lips,
like waves,
carried dreams
until they reached my shore..
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Poems are always
beautiful
talkative
loquacious
until I write them down.
Then they behave like ancient whores
who think they can survive
silence.
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He didn’t give me his name. Just a question: “Are you sure?” And as I quivered, arched a vibrating spine, thought “no contract would be legal now, you have to be sane, prostate unfluttered, bliss-less” — You don’t even know who he is! (Every safe voice.) I do. He is Unseen. Unbodied mechanic. Quantum god or prisoner, jinni or egrḗgoroi angel-demon foreign-world alien — because, really — Oh, my god! “Yes!”
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Except for fear, cancer finds a greeting, age a celebration, death an orgasm!
Missing pencils and half-used cakes of board wax margaritas mid-afternoon on an old blue-painted porch the dog is sick but the vet says he’ll be okay “Do you ever miss Los Angeles?” Yeah, some friends, memories trouble is held back by the rocks protecting the bay.
for Dave
“Isn’t it just so awesome, Chandler? Topanga said hi to me!” We’re both named after streets? “Why do I talk to you anyway? Whitsett will love this story!”
The phone stays belligerently still as I remember saying nothing.
The well she stands behind is called Love. Her job is to scream each time a fool gets close, a brutal, wicked scream that scatters birds. The wise, she makes no noise. They pass on their way, carrying water.
Where did this weight — solid rock crushing my chest into spine — come from? “You know very well. That fight? Fourth grade? Wyoming?” Yeah. So maybe it's time to build a house with that old stone and move.
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Greg Beckman 