Alan Catlin- Three Poems

What it all means

“I hear the Interzone is really nice this time of year.”

In the space for occupation

on the form he wrote: Pharmacology,

Hero: The Spaceman, Bill Lee,

Favorite Music: William Tell Overture.

Carried a worn copy of Naked Lunch

with him wherever he went as a

Rules to Live By for Dummies,

a hand book for beginners, Bible,

for opening new doors of perception,

mind control, subliminal seduction,

he craved like a new consciousness

expanding drug that broke down all

conventional boundaries of a space-time

continuum, his brain washed so clean,

no thoughts could penetrate and adhere to

what was left behind, making his mind

a kind of perfect sieve, mortal coils

slipped through with the last remaining

light, into a limbo where even time must

have a stop.  Ask him where he was going, or,

where he has been, and, he will reply

the same way, “A brave new world that

has no creatures in it.” Not even him.

Fuel Injected Dreams

They are coming down

the no-speed-limit-posted

highway, top down convertible

a blip on the radar screen,

unidentified flying objects,

trace elements on a gone-bad

nuclear reactor test, post-

apocalyptic speed freaks in

search of a hit, an alien sun

at their backs casting shadows

in a valley of death, abstract

shades that replace desert vistas,

technological dreams of lost

highways, poorly painted white

lane markers dissolving in black

pits of macadam prehistoric

creatures are struggling in;

on the road soft shoulders

are converging in a place off-

center just beyond an unseen

vanishing point.

The Grand Marshall of  Nowhere

Settling on the rickety, out of balance

bar stool, he said, “There’s a warrant

out for my arrest. On another planet.”

Most people making a statement

like that would be totally disregarded

under the assumption what he said

was just some obscure shock value,

in-the-moment thing or maybe

wishful thinking as in, “Hey, someone

out there, somewhere, wants me.”

Even if somewhere was some indefinable,

unrecognizable place in the cosmos,

and those doing the wanting were so

alien, we couldn’t begin to envision

what they were like and what they

wanted with him. Though we were

welcome, of course, to make a few

wild guesses.

Maybe it was the way he looked,

that bold attempt to achieve instant

recognition that had largely succeeded.

His look included several outstanding

features, not the least of which were:

a mostly shaved head, now patched

with stubble after inconsistent attempts

at grooming, remaining, exclamation

point waxed locks, stretched down the back

of his skull in a line, each dyed a garish

neon-like: red, blue, green, yellow.

His mascara highlighted  eyes with tattooed

tear drops at the edge leaking  red down  

his pocked marked cheeks toward  leather

vest and pants. Gothic scrolled lettering on

each forearm in black ink said : ZAK SABBATH.

His alternately gold capped and tobacco

brown stained teeth, had never been brushed

lifetime, and an unhealthy cast to his unfocused

eyes, suggested the unnatural yellow tinted

iris implants hadn’t taken and his sight

was shaky, at best, so when he spoke

it was to a moving shadow somewhere

behind the bar, “I expect they’ll be here

to pick me up soon.  Might as we have

something to drink while I wait.”

“Like a Brother from Another Planet.”

“Just like that.”

“Stay away from the jukebox, it’s been

serviced.”

“Oh, really?  What did they do to it?”

“God only knows.”

He looked over toward the wall recess

where the infernal machine sat, emitting

its timeless, neon glow.  His staring became

so fixed, so intent, you might think they

were communicating.

And maybe they were.

In their way.