Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Alan Catlin- Three Poems


In another life

after this one
he might have a
calling as a
stand-up comic
in the manner of
Lenny Bruce using
that nasally
inflected voice,
that unmistakable
from the borough
ascent to emphasize
caustic points,
barbs that touched
the quick of the
human condition,
though in this life
he was stuck in
a perpetual monologue
without purpose or
meaningful direction
other than the usual
paranoid delusions
about alien implants
in his penis and
extra voice boxes
in his throat like
the one that is
expounding now about
the latest invasion of
seeing eye dogs for
the blind being
escapees from landing
crafts, sending silent
coded messages like-
Take Me to Your Leader-
or else something only
he can hear which takes
on new meaning as
the regular blind couple
and their dogs take their
seats just up the aisle,
giving instructions to
the bus driver about
where to stop that
must have sounded like
a live documentary
scripting of a War of
the Worlds he was an
unwilling participant in.



Mars 21-12

I was down in the City on a job
and decided to check out this place
everyone was talking about: Mars 21-12.
It's either a sign of the times for a
New Millennium or an alien invasion;
the prices they get for stuff made me
think it wasn't an alien invasion:
ten bucks for a cheeseburger,
eighteen ninety-five for a Caesar Salad,
eight bucks for a Heineken.
I was afraid to find out what they
were getting for a good Imported beer. 
I guess they had to pay for all
the overhead that went into getting
the place up to grade somehow;
all those greeters dressed up like
Ziggy Stardust on a bad hair day,
gay waiters who thought they were
Iggy Pop when he could go shirtless
and have gotten his glitter on his eye
shadow and not be embarrassed
that his shadow and lip gloss clashed.
Maybe, that's why he had such an attitude:
no one told him about his color co-ordination
until he was on the floor and by then it
was too late. All I could think of saying was:
Ain't Life a Bitch…but it would be lost on him.
It was pretty easy to see though, once your
eyes got adjusted to the black lighting,
that the place had been a disco re-decorated
to fit the outer space theme. I could imagine
the spinning lunar orbs as flashing strobes
high lighting every move John Ravolta
made on the spray painted dance floor
where all  the mushroom pods masquerading
as table tops were now.  One thing never
changes though, The Men's Room.
It was something out of the dark ages,
one of those trough things no one would
question if you put up one of those historical
signs above it that said:
George Washington Pissed Here.
Still, it was kind of weird taking a piss
next to some guy who looked like the
David Bowie space creature without
his human disguise on, from A Man Who
Fell to Earth.  I could easily see the owners
going Big Time with the idea for this place:
Mars 21-12-The Restaurant, The Movie,
The Cheeseburger, but they won't get me
to go for it again. I've already paid my dues,
Big Time.
                                       for "Whitey"
 
 
 
Planet Weird

could have been the sure
fire best selling logo/catch
phrase for his new line of
Spring fashions. He was
the poster child for mean
& lean, cool & collected
behind stylin' wraparounds,
women's underwear headgear,
black torso fitting muscle
shirt, black leather jacket
& all the gold this side of
Fort Knox to complete
the ensemble.  Orders himself
a nice Tanqueray & Cranberry
with two cherries & two orange
slices, “For my health food
know what I mean? “Covers
his glass with a paper napkin,
forming a kind of tent he can
stick a straw through & drink
trying to avoid white germs &
such, one presumes, though I
must admit to a moment of
curiosity about the roll of
quarters he needs with his
change, smiling like some kind
of Samuel L Jackson badass
Shaft clone. I thought about
sharing one of my once upon
a time cop stories, about using
rolled coins for a weapon, my
friend was of the opinion that
dimes do the job better, as long
as you don't make the mistake
of putting your thumb inside
the fist, that was a surefire way
to a fractured finger, but I thought
better of it. Maybe he was just
going to use the coins in a
Laundromat but somehow I couldn't
complete that picture with him in it.
I watched as he stood to finish off
his cocktail-framed against intense
late afternoon sun, complimenting
his already major aura/glow.
I thought he must have been team
leader for task force planet weird
scoping the joint for rest stop
possibilities. 

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