Alan Catlin- Two Poems

Fuelquest

"Just my luck." You're thinking,

"To run out of fuel in East Jesus.

Where the hell am I going to find

gas in a God foresaken place like

this?" You dig out your red and

yellow gas tank from amid the ruin

of the trunk and start walking down

the unlighted back road to nowhere,

pass the sign that says: WELCOME

TO EAST JESUS  NO PEDDLERS

ALLOWED  VIOLATORS WILL BE

SHOT ON SIGHT  NO EXCEPTIONS

Start thinking this running out of fuel

business could be worse than you thought

but you don't see how and then you are

in the 42nd Street subway station still

holding that gas can and now you're

sweating bullets thinking they are going

to assume you are a terrorist so naturally

you think, "It's time to hit some bricks."

But you can't.  All the access routes are

blocked by these Homeland Security dudes

like airport luggage inspectors waving

their wands at you like they're going to

attack, then you notice they aren't airport

security at all but the dead aliens from

Area 51 dressed in uniforms and holding

these laser weapon things like a Mars Attack!

movie and you're all set to freak when this

waitress at the Roswell Eat Here Diner is

handing you a menu and you're ordering

the House Special Burger that turns out to

be this green thing on a bun slathered in

lumpy cheese which isn't doing much for your

appetite but the waitress notices and says,

"Don't fret, Son, food coloring makes

that burger green and the lumps in the cheese

are real moon rocks." Which, somehow makes

it all okay and after a few bites and no apparent

seizures a thought occurs and you ask,

"Hey, Honey, do you guys sell gas?"

And the waitress winks and says,

"Depends, what kind do you want?"

That's when you notice all the Helium balloons

being filled and how the room is filled with

Hindenberg replica blimps in all colors,

sizes and functionality reminding you that

this isn't New Mexico anymore but New Jersey

and the radio newsman describing the events

outside is saying, "Oh the humanity!" as the blimp

burns out of control, most on board dead in

seconds and you remember the gas can you

began with and decide, "Now is not the time to

bring up rapid accelerator facilitators.  Hell, I'd

rather walk anyway." Which seemed like such a

logical, such a sensible and prudent course to

take at the time, I mean, really who could have

known otherwise?

Space Cadet

After years of serious drinking,

stints in drunk tanks, begging

quarters from tourists and church

goers, sleeping it off in unlocked

rooms, broken-into rectories, sheds,

dog houses large enough to accommodate

a man not too proud to curl up in dried

shit, after years of abuse, trying so hard

to die, waking up sober, a few fingers

short of a hand, receding gums no teeth

would adhere to, falling out hair a cheap

rug might cover, a dye job mask,

a permanent cast to his eyes, feeling so

strange to be alive and breathing trying

it out for size felt like a novelty act he’d

have to experiment with while working

out all the kinks, a process not without

drawbacks like coming back from the

dead with visions of altered states, foreign

places so strange his tales of woe sounded

like science fiction or fantasy thrillers

rather than a narration of the truth,

felt like the lyric verses he was composing

in a language he’d learned on the other side;

some say it sounded like a revelation,

others like gibberish and they were both right.