Eddie Kilowatt


Binoculars

there are still
foundations of trusses
decaying and weathered.
the mangled skeleton
of a steel framework familiar,
twisting downward,
laying alongside a
river running restless.
trees and moss have taken root
encircling the rust
that used to link two islands.
is it still a bridge
when all you can see is the gorge between?
I’ve been looking across this ravine
for centuries standing still
and all I can see
is myself on the other side.


Keg Stands With Arthur

Reading Rimbaud
- that guy must have been fun at parties -
I wonder if he’d lead all the culture experts
or if he’d deplore them
leaning against countertops in the kitchen
debating music and books and movies
a glass of dry wine feeding a foamed mouth
the cigarette smoke expelled with force
to accentuate statements found preposterous

Tell me, Arthur
were you talking
to all the ladies, not yet shaving
using your broad vocabulary
to wet the bloomers beneath those skirts,
I don’t know, maybe not,
they say women weren’t exactly your cup of golden lilies

something tells me, Art,
if I know you like I think I do,
you were the guy in the corner
getting as drunk as possible
on all the free booze that was
never quite good enough for you
berating everyone in your head
dreading someone sitting next to you,
counting the moments until finally
insulting someone and
storming out the door into the street
cursing to the night’s closed lips
grabbing for a cigarette no matches found until I
handed you one and smiled.


Punk Rock Rummage

it was all there
The Clash Combat Rock vinyl
Operation Ivy on cd
The Anarchist’s Cookbook
A Clockwork Orange paperback
the leather jacket long gone
and a For Sale sign
on a rusting Yamaha 2-stroke motorcycle.

he was milling around
listless, speaking soft when he did
saying silent goodbyes
to friends he’d never again visit.

his wife,
or whoever she was,
glad to be making some money
off so much worthless crap,
wishing she could just as easily
take a marker and masking tape
and write 25 cents

on all those fading tattoos

-all three poems previously published at Eddie Kilowatt words


Greg’s Therapy

I worked with Greg
in the computer department
at a national retail chain.
We'd drive all over the country
fixing computer problems
at various store locations

The first time we traveled
I asked what music he liked.
He said he didn't really like music.

That struck me as strange,
someone with no need
for the whole of music

I sat in the car listening to him breathe.
Greg had burnt his sinuses
while working as a fry cook
and snored while awake.

Greg lived with his mom
and when she died
he had new windows installed
and re-shingled the roof

He once mentioned he'd done celibacy
"real well"

At the end of a traveling day
we'd drive to the hotel
and he'd talk about his "therapy"
before going to sleep.
Greg's therapy was making data cable splitters
for all the new store locations.

after too many times
of walking into the computer room
and Greg's ass bulging from under a desk, I said,
"Jesus Christ Greg would you get a belt."

Greg turned to look at me
puzzled and hurt, and sat there
breathing at me.
"I haven't had time."

That's how I remember Greg.
A guy who couldn't dress himself
to live for a department store.


Once A Year

I see him
outside of a coffee shop
and he's
excited to be off parole
or just got off parole
and he's going somewhere else
to make money,
there's no work around here, he'll get
A Union Job,
a guy he knows...

and he'll come back
with all his money saved
get a lawyer to
arrange custody
he never sees his kid,
that woman hates him
her whole family hates him, it's
real bad but it's
not his fault he just
tells them like it is. Then,
a handshake to luck and
away we go