Alan Catlin worked as a barman for thirty-four
unbelievably long years. His latest full length collection of poetry is
“Alien nation.” A companion volume is in the works under the working title,
“Beautiful Mutants.”
I could
see
him outside in the
rain
standing on the
double
yellow lines, calling me
out
of the bar, his face
contorted by some
in explicable rage,
made
visible by wicked
flashes
of jagged
lightening
& car head lights,
horns blaring
as
they slow to
pass,
his voice lost
to
all who might
care
to hear, a
lone
channel bell in an ocean,
a light house
that
invites the storm.
She acted
as
if she'd bought a one
way
ticket to hell a long
time
before settling herself
at
the bar for what could
be
the duration, however
long
that took, tried to
focus
both lazy eyes for one
last
hurrah before the banshee
wailed, asked for
something
that would warm the
soul
on this dark and cold
night,
Neat. Made her a
stinger
for the ditch she would
never
crawl out
of.
Thunder Beyond
Popocatepetl
that's the name of the
group to
end all super groups he
was
going to form once he had
all
the lyrics fine tuned, all
the elusive
chords
tightened.
I'll be like the Aztec
Gods,
a hurricane in a
Mexican
desert, topping the
charts,
no sacrifice too
great,
except maybe the double
dime a day habit
or
the booze it took to
bring
him down from those
astral
plains where his
imagination
roamed, and his life
drained away.
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