Alan Catlin- Three Poems

He’s a Rebel

He loved that down home

and get dirty 60’s songs

before the tunes turned

ugly on drugs, pipe dreams

and protest music, loved

the simple lyrics of: “Walking

in the Sand”, ”Little Town Flirt”,

Runaway”, “Half Heaven, Half

Heartache”, “Town Without Pity”,

loved the idea of a blonde biker

babe dressed in black leather,

long straight blonde hair blown loose

in the wind and a voice like a fallen

angle, loved her red lipstick that left

oval stains on white filter tip cigarettes,

shirt collars he wore up, those bright

mornings after languid nights in bed

as the new boy in town, fully dressed

and ready to hop on his chopped hog

to ride off, to follow the sun, forty years

too late and five dollars short of a sawbuck.



All of maybe 15 years old

and she’s already a man

eater, she whispers in

the ear of the young man

who has claimed a seat

next to her on the bus,

his face changing colors

as he listens to her suggestions.

Five miles before his stop

he pulls the cord, disembarks

into a pouring rain, no shelters

nearby, no lights, nothing,

while she returns to her reading,

a forty year old copy of

Black Spring, smiling as she reads,

well along in her home schooling

reading assignments of

The Complete Works of Henry Miller.



Crazy

The war never ends on all

those twelve hour shifts in

his mind, humping the night

as if it were a twenty dollar whore

downloaded for action the duration

of a three day pass.

Even stateside, mustered out,

nothing changed him, nothing altered

his focus, selling cash crops from

backdoor saloons, boatloads of pure

and suitcases of dinero, calling all

the shots for every deal that came

down, a posse of dead beat,

human moray eels on steroids

for protection, everywhere he went.

Downtime, clubbing with his crew,

more of a black ops mission than

a special occasion. A date, grabbing

some babe and having her

strong armed into nearest empty

room for an up close and private

encounter, just her and the boys.

A wad of twenties and some blow

left behind, along with the wreckage

of her life. No one dared complain.

Not then. Not ever.

No one crossed him on a business

deal either since the rumor started

was, he might pop someone, anyone,

just for drill. What he might do to an

actual offending party, unthinkable.

Out of town connections said he was

malo malo loco, was one tour of duty

and a deal from being lord of the

underground, a few heart beats

from immortal. No reason to change

the perceived, he thought. Not in this

life. Nor in any other.