Alan Catlin- Two Poems

                                               The Mysterious Stranger

                                                walked in after a lifetime sunning

                                                himself in a place where the ozone

                                                layer had completely been deleted or,

on the edge of some rain forest

where the climate was changing so rapidly

                                                it radically effected anyone who went there

                                                in ways that can only be imagined. 

Maybe it was the unspeakable

                                                rankness of his rotting clothes covered by

something that might either have once been

mud or engine grease, and permanently

sealed with a impenetrable slimy gloss

                                                like a polyurethane scented with assorted

                                                barnyard animal feces, and the bottom layer

                                                of the rare bird room of a Bronx Zoo,

where it was conceivable he might have been

a regular, dreaming of a lottery win that

would bring unlimited pints of Wild Irish Rose,

                                                and Cheeze Curls for a years, until the cash

                                                ran out, or was stolen.  

I watched him trying to complete a thought

that began, “Could I have----“ and ended with

                                                him standing up, addressing a tree alongside

Western Avenue, a newly acquired one dollar

bill in his hand, a locked door at his back

                                                ----a moment of your time, a draught beer

                                                anything at all?

                                               

                                                To a Person Sitting in Darkness

                                                sitting at the far end of the bar

                                                after hours, the silent TV,

                                                flash dancing MTV images in the cold,

                                                harsh, early dawn lighting.

                                                What is left of the bar’s interior,

                                                covered in spilt beers, rank whiskeys,

                                                smoked cigarettes; all the filled up

                                                ashes trays of post-midnight dreams. 

                                                Five pints of Bass Ale, and two double

                                                extra dry Robert Roys, for the road,

                                                doesn't touch, or remove, the darkness

                                                lingering inside. The only motivation

                                                to move, a force of nature, 

an empty glass.

Alan Catlin is a very retired barman. Twenty five of his thirty years of service were spent behind an Irish bar and all he has to show for it is a button that says 98% Blarney Free and a blinking, green, Miller Lite bottle cap.

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

 

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.

Alan Catlin- Two Poems

The Hard Life

began for him long before

birth: his insides mutated,

all those genes his mother

used as a kind of

perverse free-form

genetics experiment,

that began in the tail end

of the 60's and hasn't ended yet.  

You could sense his conception

as a riot of bad unprotected sex,

cheap booze, and more

pharmaceuticals than a well-

stocked, on-campus infirmary.

Nothing he ever did or said

made sense, nor had he never

achieved anything like focus or

anything like a interpersonal

relationship, most ending

before they began. 

His mother claimed he hardly

ever cried as a baby once she

started him on Similac and

homemade acid.

She could tell he was grooving

on the stars, the way his eyes rolled

behind the lids and his extremities

twitched just like he was dancing.

 

A Scanner Darkly

There wasn't a fire,

crime in progress,

drug bust, sexual

assault, homicide or

911 call he hadn't

heard about on his

all frequencies scanner,

and the next morning

he'd be at the bar,

with the sweeper,

for a cold pop to tell

the whole world all

about how your neighbor-

hoods were all going

to hell in a hand basket

and how your friends,

relatives, and casual

acquaintances were all

warm sacks of shit,

not worth the efforts

expended to keep them

alive and that, hell,

when he was growing up,

Albany wasn't a bad place

for a man to have a

family and for a kid

the way he did, playing ball

and chasing tail like any

other good old american

boy, until that 911 call

he heard, about a man down

in action, a drug bust

gone bad, and the kid

they were arresting,

was his own.

Alan Catlin was a barman for thirty-four endless years, a fact he draws upon in his written work.  Revenge is sweet, the truth harsh, so it goes.

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.

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Por Cambio Otra Mas Nada

He went

South

in search

of Acapulco

Oro

vast quantities

already baled

by mestizos

wetbacks

working for

mescalito

tequila azul

He was

going

to sell

the weed

El Norte

for mucho

dinero

was whistling

the theme

to the Third

Man

as if he

had found

the lost

treasure of

Sierra Madre

that dark

moon less

night

he

was to meet

some

hombres

to drink

some agua

caliente

on calle de

la muerte

firewater

on the street

of death

that already

had his name

inscribed

upon it

Kill for Peace

He joined

the GyReens

in '67

to see the world

and kill gooks

mostly to

kill gooks

so they sent

him to

Hawaii

on a slow

boat

and

to kill

time

he knocked up

a lady marine

sergeant

beat the living

piss out of

her

when she told

him and

instead of

a court marshall

he got a

blanket party

was beaten

so bad

they knocked

40 points

off his IQ

then they

sent him

to Nam

to kill gooks

but it just

wasn't the same

They lived in

mortal fear

of finding all

the thoughts

of the best

minds

of their

generation

written down

on scraps

of paper

stuffed in

the mouths

of crocodiles

locked inside

plastic cosmic

cubes

or

contained within

melting colored

goo inside of lava

lamps

changing shapes

faster than

their minds

could hope

to under

stand

Tales of Beatnik Glory

seven flights

toward heaven

in a rent

controlled flop

house

where any

thing could

happen

& often did

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Enough

She worked

the bar

as if she

was working

the streets

Called all

the men

sweet things

or honey

pies

Had tip cups

everywhere

under the bar

like she was

running a

concession

Drank

straight Vodka

warm Man

while she

worked

I wondered

where she'd

be when

all these

men had

had enough

A Man Called Horse

He was

on Horse

alright

His eyes

were so

bummed

out

you could

see his

soul

cruising

over the

edge of

a cliff

He was

riding

so hard

you couldn't

ever imagine

him

sitting

still

unless

you carried

stiffs

for a

living

Chest Surgeons

They slip

into the night

like bad

dreams

Take over

your bar

Stab pointed

fingers in

your chest

Tell you

all about

the politics

of South

East Asia

Drink

everything

X‑tra dry

Want to

know why

you're not

smiling

Want to

know why

your chest

is a mass

of scars

Alan Catlin- A Poem

St. Patrick’s Day as Hell

After the early A.M. arrivals, the three day bingers,

            eyes like pin holes in a black canvas;

After the heart attack machine, flushed face turning

            blue, a bite of corned beef on rye still

            lodged in his throat;

After the ambulances go,  the police cars, Black Maria

            wagons,

After an Irish cheer for the band, empty pint glasses

            thrown against a wall and the shot glasses

            that followed;

After the banshee wail, impromptu a capella singer,

            her wild red hair aflame with the light from

            a No Exit sign,

After the penny whistles, rogue bag pipes, fiddlers

            on speed and homemade acid;

After the relentless crush of revelers, the fetid air inside,

            thick as smoke following  a terror bomb raid;

After hours in the bar, the blood draining morning toward

            dawn, rounds of Irish and Stout for the help,

            the Oblivion Ha Ha beckoning, Yeats with a

            magic flute gesturing to follow him this way

            into the dark.

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Never the Same Father Twice

"She has a new baby every

fifteen months whether she

needs one or not, all of 23,

four kids already & another

on the way, says, "A girl's

got to have some company

when her man is away."

indicating that they were

doing hard time in a place

where the only women allowed

were matrons, lawyers &

shrinks, none of whom got

close enough to be touched-

this getting locked up  a kind

of bad habit her men always

seemed to cultivate or else

she just liked them lean &

mean & horny which was

short hand for crazy, oversexed

and living out of desperation

in a fast lane that always seemed

to stop outside her door along

with plain clothes cops, uniformed

officers of the law, process servers,

repo men, eviction notice carriers,

rental furniture repossessors, none

of whom she answers the door for,

telling the kids to lie still and shut

up or else-and they did knowing

full well that her 'or else' worse

that anything they could imagine,

that could be pounding on the soon-

to-be-padlocked front door.

Son of a Hack

He is a long haired,

soft spoken angel of

mercy answering

the distress call from

the Tavern where

the old man is

ensconced incapable

of driving, two days

without sleep, hard

wired on meth, straight

black coffee, lighting

the other end of his

burnt candle with

pints of domestic beer,

sharing bedroom secrets

with his second ex-wife,

the one he married

out of lust and divorced

once he discovered

she could not only drink

him under the table but

sell the furniture for more

booze, while he was

sleeping under it,

the young man imploring,

"Dad, come on, let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere

until you get your hair cut."

"Well, it's going to be a

long day wherever you

end up before that happens

'cause if you don't come now,

it won't be at home."

Unfocused, uncomprehending

eyes stare back at him,

registering nothing.

Sober

"I gave up

drinking for

two weeks"

he said

"I just lost my

son-22 years

old-

     he hung

himself"

I wasn't sure

how that related

to his being

sober a whole

two weeks

other than

looking at him

the way he was

now for 22 years

was what made

that boy

die