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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Changeling
Category: Poems
Faustus Possessed
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…
Except for fear, cancer finds a greeting, age a celebration, death an orgasm!
Home
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
Triptych
“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.
“Weight”
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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Prayer
I asked three times
for this affliction to be taken from me.
“But it’s your brain,” God said.
Fuck! I guess I need that.
“Lorca”
Hey, bro!
I did her!
With sunglasses on!
— Memorial Acclamation
Go do it, then,
whatever it is that you do —
sex someone, buy that ring —
film it, even, make
a record of your elementary courage
and then social your accomplishment
to your kind.
After all, you have the keys —
(Secret gesture.
Secret gesture.
Secret gesture!)
— and I should want to be
just
like
you.
But,
no.
If you’re going to do it, hijo,
choose a field where
you will get caught
and shot
and then I’ll know you’re real.
Let your body stand erect
as rifles are raised by priests and soldiers;
stand before their righteous hate, alone,
knowing you die for your desire.
Then I’ll follow.
In your childlike voice:
“It was just a little fun!”
“Why do you have to be so serious?”
Mi pequeñito, you have a thousand ways
to explain your survival —
as his blood sings from Spain,
intones a truth known only to me:
Divinity is a dead body,
sinking and stinking,
unliked and unfriended,
shot by justice,
abhorred by Church,
buried nowhere but my heart.
Cristo amó.
Cristo murió.
Cristo murió.
Located here.
Sway
The ebb and force of sway, waves of time pull forward, push back; a swell of belted Romans, America's blue-suited crash. Which is why it's important to build a boat for my heart.
For my dad
"Grease" I get practicality from him, and height. I can stay up until 2am, get up at 6, and push through the day. Smart friends call this “resilience”; I just call it a day. Up or down, it’s still got to be lived. Might as well do it awake. I can’t fix cars like him, and I don’t have grease under my fingernails and my hands are not rough like his. But I don’t trust mechanics with clean, soft hands, and at least I don’t drive around ignoring strange noises. Both are him, and I’ve never said that before. There is not one person on this planet confused about the way he feels – personally or about life. He likes what he likes and who, doesn’t have much time for niceties. He is himself, and when he leaves he’s going to take nothing but himself, and he’ll be just fine with that. I don’t know where I got the letters; he doesn’t trust books, or writing. But it seems, as long as I have them all, I might as well do something useful. Here: he did his best by me. I guess that’s all I need to say.
Greg Beckman 