Category: #poems

FR-eee!

~ G Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
W-R-O-N-G
is a sound.
Go ahead and make it,
SoundMaker.
W-R -- do you feel the 
gravel in your chest?
Vibration?
O-N -- 
almost an OHMMMMM,
almost prayer,
right?

R-I-G-H-T
is a sound.
Go ahead and make it,
SoundMaker.
Different, eh?
Frequency rests
someplace else --
R-H-I, closer to 
my head.
Distant. BRI-ght.

Now say
P-O-O-P!
Or L-O-V-E.
OR...

SoundMaker,
SOUND!
Stop thinking
letters.
G-OH
into the FEE-lds
and FO-wrists
and BRIE-thhhh!
Sound FRE-eee to LoverSound.
I'll be waiting
to SOW-nd with you.

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AfterQuestions

~ G Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
God keeps me alive
because I have questions
for “after.”
Serious questions.
Questions I know he can’t answer.

Like:

Why is my nose crooked?
Really?  You couldn’t give me something straight?
Anything STRAIGHT?

And why not save us from 
ALL of the Falwell’s — 
let’s go further —
all fundamentalists?
(If you say Free Will
I swear to you I’ll throw 
Crohn’s Disease
in your face.  
Free Will.  
Shit.)
They’re ruining the world
and my upstanding view
of pool boys.  Please!

And as long as we’re here,
not that I’m complaining,
— I’m totally cool in that department —  
but how come
skinny-skater Bodie
was given that dick?
Can you just answer me that?
Was it a reward?
Maybe recognition for his
Exceptional Contribution 
to Human Progress?
I’m sure he’s saved 
hoards with his Board —
it all seems just a little…
peculiar.

More:  

Did you have to let
America have the nukes?
You knew what we’d do,
and there were Canadians nearby.
And why did you let Republicans
happen?
Why are people in Bakersfield
so proud?
Henry Fonda for On Golden Pond?

(Free Will, again, right?)

And there’s this skater named Bodie,
maybe I mentioned him?
Why?
Just why?

See you in a bit.

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Stories? Click here.

Mine

~ G Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
He’s a poster.
He posed for it,
flexed.
Baseball player
who’s won —
wife, kid, God, arms.

Good.
Yes.
I wish him well...

and then plod
up my empty street
soaked in past
and full of dark.
The house is on the right.
A light is on.
He waits for me.

Posters aren’t made of me.
My triceps don’t act like that.
Fans?  No.
My shy love
and this quiet plot,
beautiful,
mine and silent and 
home.

I’ll choose mine
every 
time.

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A story or five? Click here.

Trick

~ G Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
Is there a trick,
some magical flick,
to that condo way up high?
A wave of the hand
that clears streets to sand
for more than a moment by?

Maybe a way
(I'm afraid to say)
to skip this world and my shame?
To live where I'm rich,
escape this poor niche,
trade up to long-sought-for fame?

Yes.

A warning:

People starved for that condo.
And your rich-world, buddy?
It’s all paid for 
with blood.

(Fuck.  Rhyming seems so stupid now.)

“Upstairs Elk”

~ G Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
There’s an elk living upstairs.
I can tell by the lumbering.
Hard-crusted hooves
crash against the straining floor,
drunk, ungainly; 
I’m sure his thighs —
they ripple with fat-stores
as he smashes from room to room,
not sure why he’s there.

Still…

when he makes love,
grunts around each night
mounts the elk-lette,
even his strange body
fades into power

and little elks.

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Drinks

~ G Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
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?

More moods? Click here.