Tag: life

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.

Two Countries

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

Mom and Dad shouted at the TV in different languages, both of which I understood after spending over five years listening to the differences. A man in a suit was saying something in a third language that was very difficult to follow, something about the Supreme Court and “tapes” the President thought were his.

“They belong to the fucking country!” Dad yelled. “That asshole! This is the reason I don’t vote in no goddamn elections. Fucking cocksucker!”

Mom only paused to take a quick glance back at me, where I sat at the dining room table trying to do my multiplication. Then she went on: “Where does he think we live? Russia? This is not the way an American behaves. Something’s wrong with him.”

“He’s a disease, Joy. You know what you do to a disease? You get rid of the fucking thing.”

As so often happens, what began as a point of unity quickly turned into a point of conflict. Soon my mother accused my father of wanting to “eradicate” everyone he disagreed with, herself included, to which my father responded with a statement illuminating my mother’s naivete. I believe the phrase “shit for brains” was used, of course only in reference to “those people who don’t know the difference between their ass and a hole in the ground.”

War came swiftly. I knew they’d achieve detente eventually, but not without a complex ritual of negotiation laced with extracted promises and sexual favors. Having a common enemy – the Mormons across the street or something my teacher had said – usually helped them overcome any residual tension.

I made sure to steer clear, just like Europe, speaking Dad when I was on the fucking playground banging shit out and Mom nearly everywhere else.

*

More Micros HERE.

And then these lovely books of poetry…

“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.

No need

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
I wonder where my hand is in all this, 
this marsh where moss floats and webs 
stay put, bugs plane pond-skin unafraid 
of the sleepy-eyed frog just back from the edge 
and full.  Here is safe and here is calm;
nothing ever happens here that wasn’t
fore-ordained, announced by ripples or
sudden silence.  
It feels like death.
Happiness would be a shock.
No need.

I’ll bide my time, lay here wild, 
skim this unmade life, this greenish 
eden-bayou, this unfriendly not-mine
as all eventually devour this man, 
whispering via mosquito-buzz: 

there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

*

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And in case you’re interested, BOOKS 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.

Open House

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment 
What does freedom feel like?
An open gate on a busy walk,
house set back and door ajar, 
anyone welcome, all memories.
They come with their stories or
pass by without a word on 
journeys I know nothing about
and don’t need to sift, but will
if one or two cross that
threshold and walk the yard to
find me sitting on the stair
having a wonderful conversation with
Mistake.

*

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