Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Partially Obstructed

 

Settling in center rear of the second-run

movie theater as house lights dim,

rows ahead and behind clear, no partial

views, meddlesome commentators, moronic

super-sizers, soda slurpers, ice chewers,

Macadamia nut fanciers, clear sailing through

trailers until Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in his traded-

to-the-Lakers Afro days sits down directly in

front and all of his teammates six foot nine

and above with him, even Sven Natar from

his UCLA days along for the flicks, so we

decide to move but our row is blocked by

the first seven footer to play on an NBA court,

Walter Dukes and with him, his NFL counterpart,

Ernie Ladd "Bigger that Dad" the first seven

foot, 300 pounder in his league and I think,

"This can't be.  These guys are like long dead."

And then I see Wilt "The Stilt", and Dave D

from the Knicks, the bartender's son, and George

Mikan and Walter Bond, definitely not to be

confused with Ward Bond the actor, no this

is the baseball player, all six foot eight of him

in playing shape from back in the days when anyone

over five eight was considered a giant and now,

I'm like really worried, as all of these guys are way

dead too and I wonder if maybe this is the wrong theater,

that the Marx Brothers Retrospective we'd been

dying to see is actually a Karl Marx Retrospective

and the Main Attraction is neither Horse Feathers

nor Monkey Business but colorized versions of

Battleship Potemkin, followed by colorized

copies of Alexander Nevsky and Ivan the Terrible

Parts 1 And 2 and I'm thinking, "How could they do

this to Eisenstein and someone says, "They colorized

Casablanca, didn't they?" "Did they ever!" I think,

"Not that you'd ever catch me watching something

like that in this life." And everyone around us starts

laughing as if I actually said something funny and

I know now, we are in the wrong theater for sure

but we are way beyond too late to leave.

 

 

 

White Evil

 

Ouzo, Tequila, Bailey's Irish Creme

 

If Death were

a man wheedling

a bartender for

a complimentary beer

and pocket change

for cab fare to

the Greyhound Station,

more than likely closed

this near Last Call,

he would be this

mostly blind man

sighting the industrial

wall clock with

a retractable magnifying

lens with his good eye,

the all white one

rolling nearly loose

detached in its' socket

as his high pitched,

pleading voice suggests,

"Just one more.

Come on, you know

you can do it.

Another one won't kill

you.  I'll go away if

you do." And it seems

almost plausible that he might,

as the beer flows his way

and his metal guiding

stick rhythmically taps

against the brass foot

rail, a kind of artificial

heart beating, "This place

got a juke box? I know

there's one in here somewhere.

You got some quarters?

I need to hear some Mu-

Zic- before I go." and that too

sounds almost plausible,

the barman is so anxious

to have him gone, so desperate

anything could be plausible,

"What's your name?" the blind

man asks, his wide, featureless

eye so grotesque, so unnatural

it is impossible to look very

close, "I really have to know.

I need to write your name

in my book." And the barman

wonders: should I speak or not?

but it doesn't matter much either

way, he's doomed no matter what.

 

 

 

The Firebird

 

Pepper Vodka and Cranberry Juice

 

She was wearing

this amazing short

short skirt with a

low cut top to match

made from fabrics

so way beyond loud

it made you wonder

if she was cheerleading

for some spectator

sport organized in

another dimension

parallel to ours

and she was  so

bubbling over, effervescent

trying to make whatever

it was she wanted

understood, she spoke

in a tongue not readily

recognizable as something

that was spoken here

on earth, her efforts

made more complicated

by her warp hyper speed

buzzing and The Boss

screaming something

about being born in the USA

as if that were a big deal

in the background, so I

try hand gestures to help

out, pointing at items

behind the bar asking her

to select but it doesn't

work out, becoming more

and more like some colorful,

futile game of charades

conducted by two inmates

of a locked-in ward.