Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Urbane Cowboy

We’re seeing more of them, all the time,

from back East. Feels like they are

fixin’ to take over.  It’s like a disease or

a Plague. A plague of locusts that is.

They think maybe wearing some Sears

and Roebuck jeans, Western style shirt

and leather boots don’t so much as have

a crack in them, they’ll blend in.

Even they know better than to wear a

string tie.  If they had any pride, they’d take

them jeans out and drag ‘em behind

the pickup for a few hundred miles,

then wash ‘em ‘til the color fades to

a natural washed out blue.  That is if

they had a pickup.  More than likely they

have one of them SUV’s.  Shoot, no cowboy

I ever knew would get caught dead in one

of them.  Where would the gun rack go?

Bet he don’t know what a gun rack is,

much less how to shoot a gun.  Any gun.

Can’t carry on a decent conversation

with one of ‘em either. You say, “Back in

the day, Ole Barry would have known

what to do.”  And they look dumber than

usual and ask, “Who’s Barry?” And you say,

“Goldwater.” And they think you’re on about

some new liquid refreshment comes in a

plastic bottle they haven’t heard of yet but are

dying to try. That’s like going to Louisiana

and not knowing who Huey Long was. 

What good are they?  Back when I was in

the Rangers over there in The Nam we used

guys like them for target practice. 

Guess we missed a few.

“…one of God’s personal sunbeam angels”

            Robert Stone, “Death of a Black-Haired Girl”

There wasn’t a lane built yet

fast enough for her, eyes fixed

on distant corn whiskey still fires

burning in the night like fireflies.

Driving for her was a headlong rush

straddling double yellow lines around

do not pass ess turns, brights on high

or no lights at all, simply for the thrill

of it, sometimes with one eye closed,

sometimes with both taped open,

menthol cigarette smoke clouding her sight.

There was no point trying to keep up

or to slow the pace down; there wasn’t

a name for where she was going or

where she would end up, passing hundred

dollar bills like roadhouse bev naps

with the outline of martini glasses

in red ink stenciled on the design,

cocktail olive skewered on a toothpick

half gone and not a drop to drink.

            The Boys

Back bar mirrors are for the boys

to admire the perfection of their

features in.  They are worse than

vain women: fluffing their hair,

flexing weight room toned muscles,

studying facial profile lines as if waiting

for an artist to notice them, do sketches

and translate the studies into stone.

If makeup defined a male’s beauty,

they would have all of it: blush in

every shade and color, back packs full

of lipsticks for every outfit, all kinds

of light, powders for the blemishes should

any be found. They are the boys

and they were born to be pampered,

God’s gift to sorority sisters, mommy’s

little man, even when chronologically

adult, daddy’s credit score in jeopardy

once all the credit cards are maxed,

new ones taken out. “Use one card up,

apply for another, it’s only plastic,” is

their motto, at least until they are shut off,

strict allowance guidelines imposed.

They have back holes instead of brains

they try to fill with back shelf booze,

designer drugs and imported beers.

They go to class just to check in, someone

else takes the exams, writes the papers,

fills out the grad school apps. Have

that MBA all but filled out, a no-show,

no-point, cocaine days and cocaine nights

job on the street signed and sealed once

the last day of class ends as long as dad’s

cooked books pass inspection, if the Feds

don’t indict, 9-11 doesn’t happen twice.

They know everything without being taught.

Some day they might even come of age.