Category: prose poems

Learning to Spell

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
Spirit says: “Your words create 
your world. Shoot for the stars.”

I say: “I’m 17 again...
only this time, this time!
I’ll go straight to the SavOn
(remember those?)
and buy hair-clippers to 
shave my back and chest and arms
(I can handle the chest and arms
but I’ll have to find someone to
do the back – maybe Grammy, 
she always seemed to know
what direction I was headed). 
I’ll work out and run with my shirt
off, and then when I see Jason
at the Dales Jr. liquor store
and he gives me those eyes I’ll
ask him if he wants to go to
Carney’s to get food and he won’t
take his beautiful eyes off my
hunky arms and chest.”

Spirit says: “Don’t say will. Say Am. 
BTW, he was already into you. Why shave?”

So I say this: “Okay, wait. 
Maybe just the back. 
Maybe that’s the way Jason and I 
become friends because he is already 
giving me those deep blue eyes
in class, so I don’t think he 
minds clipping my back as we talk
in French and he tells me I’m 
smart and I tell him ‘Let’s go get
food at Carney’s’ because I’m an
idiot, but then I see I’m being an idiot 
so I give him a kiss and we roll around 
for an hour or two until his Dad gets home
and we race to get dressed before he
comes upstairs laughing because
he already knows.”

Spirit says: “Don’t say MAYBE.
If you’re sure, it’s happening.”

Happening? 
What did happen?
Forty years happened. 
Life happened. Death happened.
Dave. Hmmm.

So I say this: “I’m 17.  I’m at 
Dales Jr. I’m skinny and hairy and 
think I might be gay but I don’t know
because I’m scared of all the prostitutes 
over in Santa Monica and it’s 1986 and 
there’s AIDS and no one to talk to.
I’m buying Jim Beam for my Dad and
run into Jason. His hair is perfect
eighties, swooped back and free. 
We talk. We’re shy. I want to kiss.
He leaves after waving goodbye.
He doesn’t want to go.
I float home and have a drink with
my Dad. He says there’s something
different about me. I say nothing.
But I know how I feel.”

Spirit pauses: “That’s what happened.
Those were terrible years.
Jason broke your heart. Badly.
Why go through all that again?”

I can hear hope in his voice.
He only wants me to say what’s true.

So I speak truth.

I say: “Why mess with perfection?
What I want to know is:
will I remember any of this? 
It’s been wild so far! 
Wait!
Don’t tell me! 
I don’t want to know!”

Spirit says: “Good answer.”
He laughs as I fall asleep.

Such a bastard. 
But a good bastard.

*

Just a suggestion: check out more in Poems. Tap here.

The Way To Become Unjealous

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
Think of your favorite porn star,
the one with the big pecs and fabulous
smile (you know the one),
wiping his ass after taking a shit.
Way more than four squares,
more like forty because
it was a messy morning,
what with the viagra and 
laxatives.

Think of him getting off the toilet
and jumping into the shower,
frustrated, behind schedule,
because it’s just easier to let the
water wash all that shit down.

Suddenly, do you see his flat feet?

*

Mind

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
It’s exhausting preparing for every future.
When you’re nearing 60, escaping sounds good.
A quantum jump, not the other kind.
They tell me not to think about it, but
I keep hoping I wake up in another life 
so relieved there are tears 
and a huge smile, reset. 
It’s happened before. I was being convicted
of a crime I didn’t commit. Then I woke up!
I need it to happen again.
Maybe it will again.

It’s exhausting preparing for every future.
One of them is might be good.
They tell me to focus here:
wearing underwear again in the locker room,
or walking naked, flexed. “You got this!”
To get there means hope,
but every permutation is a possibility,
most of them breath-taking.
When am I going to wake up,
relieved I’ve escaped, a smile on my face,
reset but somehow, still here?

It’s exhausting preparing for every future.
I’m told there is no future, not really.
“It might never get here.” 
The past can’t get here either.
“Not if you don’t let it!” 
Nothing to plan for, 
nothing to run from.
Just this Now. Always capitalized. 
A typewriter. Music. Peace.
Maybe a frozen fruit smoothie.
I should have a frozen fruit smoothie.
I’ve always liked those.

It’s exhausting preparing for every future.

*

Two Dramatic Poems

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
We're in it now.
Walkers and wipes from here till the end.

People will say "How wonderful they
take care of each other."
People will say "They have each other."
Smiles will barely mask pity
as I become your good deed.

I don't think I'll care about good wishes.
I'll be grateful for you, I hope,
in-between bouts of awareness.
You'll love me until I die,
and then love me more until you smile
for the time I was once whole –

when there was no walker,
no wipes –
when we thought death was the worst, 
some far-off place, some mirage.
We thought we'd escape –
took long walks across the bridge
and ate food, fun food, hamburgers.
I took stairs two and three at a time,
and you attracted guys in the showers,
just washing yourself you attracted life.

Jealous old men shot proverbs:
"Enjoy it while your can."
"Things that don't go wrong before
fifty...do after.  Beware!"
Pity crossed our lips but we stood sure
age was someone else's war,
someone else's ward,
the cost of ignorance.
Choice.
Never bad luck.
Never true.

Now everything we do is timed.
Weighed. Purposed.
My body isn't mine anymore
though I placate it with spinach
and cardio and porn.
He's tending toward home,
breaking me into the grave
slowly, surely, 
ready to lay down
as I conjure stairs
taken two or three at a time
and showers, those showers,
filled with beauty,
mine for a few minutes more.

*

There are books. Such books. Click here.

And if you like poems, click here.

A California-cool option for Late-Night readers…

~ Greg Beckman ~ 1 Comment

You can read my latest poem collection, Late-Night Lucid, through your local library! For free! Through Indie California, library patrons throughout The Golden State have access to an electronic version of the book that already has one 5-star review on Goodreads. (It’s the only review; we all have to start somewhere.) I am proud to have had my work selected by an organization whose purpose is the promotion of independently published books and their authors, and am delighted that you have access to it through your local California library. Suits my ethos.

If you would like the give the ebook Late-Night Lucid a try, click here. It pops right up.

AND if you so enjoy the poems that you just need to have a copy for yourself, click here. Sometimes you just want to hold a book.

Some words on The Indie Author Project:

The Indie Author Project (IAP) is a publishing community that includes public libraries, authors, curators, and readers working together to connect library patrons with great indie-published books. IAP has helped hundreds of libraries engage their local creative community and assisted in getting almost 20,000 indie ebooks into their local libraries. Most importantly, the project has worked with top curation partners and librarians to identify hundreds of these as the best indie ebooks available to readers—so they can be sustainably circulated to library patrons with confidence.

For more information — and instructions for independent writers wondering about how to participate — click the State.

Happy reading (and writing)!

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“Libraries are one of the few public spaces where you’re allowed to exist without the expectation of spending any money.”

Neil Gaiman

“Conversations I didn’t hear

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
[note: best if read on a device that preserves indentation/spacing]

                “After everything he’s been through…”
“Sports’ll knock some sense into him.  Teach him something.”
                “He’s smart – he’ll figure it out.”
        “Just don’t say anything.  You always say something
        and it always lands wrong.”
“Life is going to hit that kid sideways.”
        “He says he wants to go to Japan.  Live there.
        What’s he think he’s gonna find?  Big mistake.”
“Football?  Right.  Cheerleader more like it.”
        “You’re one to talk.  Exactly how many times you
        land on your back?’”
                “He’ll find his way. He's gonna be happy.
                Gonna surprise everybody.”
        “How am I supposed to raise a gay kid?”
“Maybe the swim team?  Don’t they like that?”
        “You love him, you horse’s ass.  That’s what you do.  
        Every single day of your life.  You love him.”
        “You always defend him.”
“You’re supposed to be a teacher.  Shut the fuck up.”
        “You’re supposed to be his father.  Act like it.”
                “I’m that boy’s Grandma 
                and I say he’s gonna be fine.”

*

More poems here.

Short on time? Try a micro or four here.

Matches

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

I watched as Billy tried to light the flimsy cardboard match out on the back porch.  It wouldn’t catch and he was crying.

“Think about this the next time you decide to waltz around in your mother’s shoes.”

Billy’s fingers were already a little burned.  I was allowed to watch because that’s what happens when you dishonor the family like that.  “No son of mine…” Dad began but then noticed Billy was trying to fold the cover of the matchbook back so that he could pull the match between it and the sandpaper strip.  “No way, no fuckin’ way.”  He grabbed the matchbook and used his thumb to hold the match down while he zipped it.

“Like a man, Billy.  Light it like a fuckin’ man.  And stop your sniveling or I’ll add another book.”

Billy tried to stop crying.  He tried to cover the matchhead with his thumb and it lit but took half his thumb with it.  He yelped and dropped everything.

“That’s enough!” Mom pushed past me onto the porch.  “He’s had enough!”

Dad turned on her.  She didn’t back away but I could tell she thought about it.  “You want him growing up a fuckin’ PANSY, Mickey?  What’s next?  Lipstick?”  Dad started prancing around the porch with his wrists pointed down and knees stuck together.

Billy started to laugh.  He was still crying a little but then he stopped and picked up the matchbook.  Dad got behind him and held his hands and showed him how to hold the match just right so it would only hurt a little.

“That’s my boy,” Dad said. “Another one.”

Mom went inside shaking her head but she was smiling too.

Neither of them noticed I was wearing Dad’s work boots. I really liked the way they felt.

*

More Micros here.

Résistance

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
Resistance is not wearing a pink hat
or marching with a million people 
or speaking your dreams 
hoping to tame wild beasts.
That’s solidarity, and it won’t work.

Resistance is not trusting love
as the enemy nails beams together.
It is not honesty before Pilate. 
It is not true to Self.
Truth is for Jesus, aching to die.

Resistance is silence as you speak lies.
It is saying yes to Christian neighbors
and doing what you can
as you work, as you wait.
It is letting proud boys believe they've won
and their women, that you've found home 
as you sow faith and community –
beautiful vines that slowly grow
inch by inch, season by season,
year by year.

Then, then…

when need’s grip snaps grieving sons
and senseless tears, forgotten daughters;
when bereft and lost they reach for 
friend, family, husband, wife;
when only hope shields pain
and you stand firmly between 
the question and its adjured answer:
then, then remove your mask, 
then and only then let it slowly slip 
from your always-enraged face —
show them your ageless hate
just once, lonely soldier,
so that as they sink
their departing view

is you.

*

Sortes 18 — A little night reading

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

Writers published in Sortes 18 gathered July 7 to read recent and previously published work. Stories, poems, musical interludes, artful inspiration — is there a better way to spend the evening?

The writers/poets/artists (in order of appearance):

  • JULIA YONG
  • MARK RUSS
  • DANIEL RABUZZI
  • MARTE CARLOCK
  • CHARLES ALBERT
  • JAKE SHEFF
  • MICHAEL THÉRIAULT
  • DIPTI ANAND
  • GREG BECKMAN
  • ROBERT POPE

Enjoy! With thanks to editor Jeremy Tenenbaum for the invitation and awesome atmosphere.

*

My reading included poems from Beginning Middle Man, So…What Do You Do?, and Late-Night Lucid. Each is available HERE. Or you could just hit the BOOKS menu button up-top.

The Pontiac

~ Greg Beckman ~ 1 Comment

I was the first punk not afraid to walk up the driveway. I saw him smoking in the front seat of his car, one leg in, the other leg out. He shifted his head and watched me walk up to the car door and ask if I could look inside. “I want one of these.”

He nodded. “You know what this is?” He stared straight at me. I said it was a 1967 Pontiac LeMans with all-original interior from the look of the dashboard and door panels, dials and chrome knobs and the dual-gate shifter in the center console. I touched the split-bench seat behind his shoulder and felt hard black vinyl. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a drag and exhaled smoke through his nose.

We sat in his car until it was dark, smoking cigarettes and listening to the oldies station that he sometimes tapped the steering wheel to. I asked if he was born there. I told him I couldn’t wait to get out. “It’s a good town and all but nothing that hasn’t been done will ever get done.” He flicked the cigarette away from the car and we lit up again.

“You want to take a drive?”

I said sure and asked if I could take the wheel. He looked sideways at me and blew out smoke fast. “Sure do got a pair,” he said. I knew he was going to let me drive, not out of the gate but later. “She’s got a lot under the hood.” I knew he couldn’t wait. He fired her up. I never heard such a sweet sound before, not from the inside. The floorboards rumbled. I could feel it through my feet. This car had balls. We growled down the driveway and into the street. The car was hungry for the pedal, itching for it, edgy. I threw my arm across the top of his seat behind his shoulder. He grinned and asked if I was ready. I nodded and gripped the door with one hand and the back of his seat with the other before we jumped and that untamed devil roared away from his house and his life and we yelled and whooped over the engine and the wind and the darkness as we blasted out, out into a suddenly wide world.

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