“Parking”

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
“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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Faustus Possessed

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
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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Reflections in a window

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment
Converse shoes to light-brown hair over sunned muscular calves to dull grey shorts to adventurous glutes to dull grey tank top to moderately formed shoulders to fleshy upper arms to selfie of useful face.

He stands.  Throws his cup away in the correct Starbucks recycling receptacle (there’s a guide on top of the barrel;  it’s confusing). Moves outside, glances at me through the window as he passes. Stands by dull grey Prius.  Lifts tank top before reflecting window. Deep-cut, not just abdominals but chiseled muscle groups flexing against taught skin.  Gets in car. Drives into the world.

I think:  he has to lift his shirt every time he wants to show his assets.

And then:  most people are trying to monetize their lives, commodify their bodies, sell their wares.  

Whether it’s a skill or a feature doesn’t matter;  like auctioneers we shout ourselves before buyers who are themselves sellers, bartering what we have for what we want, trying to transform what was given or worked for (again, doesn’t matter) into currency that is then used to purchase from others what we need.

Our bodies become goods, paraded and traded by pimp-parasites whose property-claims ignore the ubiquity of dirt. We do to our-selves what we do to our-world, assert dominion over arms and legs, trees on a mountainside, flowers in a field, each captured by a brutal interloper that proclaims ownership over what it did not create, sells it, and moves on.

The pimp did look at me.  

But then, deciding that I had nothing to offer, continued to hawk his meat to a hungry, depleted species. 

Gloria in excelsis Deo.
unsplash-logocharles gaudreault

Triptych

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
“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.