Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Franz Josef, Hiding

The unforeseen consequences of

not sleeping in the heat near fire

escapes so rusty and worn, no one

knows what kind of weight they

will bear, occasional music there a

police siren song on rain battered

streets.  Inside, late Haydn, symphonies

for insomniacs, dipsos, best savored

with whiskey and water, shots and backs,

all that chases blue sounds of death down

lead foot alleys, wino racket amid the

garbage and the towers of uncollected

waste, no tomorrow music only a dead

man would write, sound stricken from

the heart on no sun rising mornings

like this one, white snow static on the TV

where the images should be.

Sex and the Single Girl

Making plans, she speaks reverently

of a Marian retreat, quiet times of

reflection and prayer with women,

young and old, such as herself,

who truly believe.  Then she speaks

of mercy fucking, having sex with

the high school loser, a guy so

pathetic and reviled, he’d probably

never even had sex with himself.

“It wasn’t great but it was the right

thing to do.  I made his day, that’s

for sure. I’ve never seen anyone so

grateful.  For the right guy, I might

even do it again.”

Recounts all of the boys she’s slept

with, before the high school dweeb,

and after. The men she’d like to

have and the ones to avoid.

Plans to stay single, wide open,

and available, even at the retreat.

“You’d be surprised at some

of the stuff you hear there.

Some of the stuff you see.”

                                                The Dancing Girls of Death

She was fifteen going on,

a Sex in the City age, three gold

rings in her right ear, a clown’s-

head charm bracelet around each

wrist, and a blue butterfly tattoo

on her butt, no one in her family

had seen nor, ever would, if she

had her way. “My stepdad would

freak if he knew. Especially, as he

paid for it.” She told one of her

boy toys who was so stoned all he

could manage was an obligatory,

“Bummer,” his reaction to all negatives

like his all purpose “Cool,” for all

the positive things in life. Like

beer blasts and pill parties, unprotected

sex in beachfront houses while parents

were away at orgies of their own,

though they called them something else.

All the like-minded she witches in

her coven had matching tats on

their ass as a kind of blood kinship

thing that would forever unite them

in sisterhood until the next falling out,

next sex text one of them would send,

of one of their number, to like, everyone

on earth. Something sent as a kind of

joke, under the influence of alcohol

and E, barely remembered after, until

the message went, like viral, and the girl

in question thought razor blades

in the bath was the only solution

to an otherwise insoluble problem.

And it might have been, were it not

for the kid brother seeing the text,

and barging into that room no adult

would dare to go.

Accused of bullying, violating

sacred trusts, and child porn laws,

she stonewalls authorities, insists she is

above all this childish stuff and maybe

she was, in a way, if someone hadn’t

almost died.