by John Bennett
The first major collection of poems by John Bennett in over 30 years. 156 pages.
To be born
into water.
To be born
into your
father’s hands.
To be born
nameless.
To be born
& not placed
on a scale.
To be born
& taken
straight to
your mother’s breast.
There’s something
very right
about this.
There’s something
grand.
Start here,
gentle people,
if you
hope to
shatter your
chains.
Taken from Born Into Water by John Bennett. HCOLOM PRESS
Filed under poems & short jabs
Each foray
into
life on
life’s terms
is a
bludgeoning.
Filed under poems & short jabs
The realization
that no
one else
exists a
crowded room
full of
echoes &
shadows.
The well-
rehearsed act
that continues
after the
curtain falls,
stray dreams
like doves
in a
bell tower,
a wide
river flowing
with the
blood of
armies.
Oceans
full of
whales &
submarines,
galaxies
tilting off
the edge
of the
universe (which
is flat
after all),
the moment
your heart
& brain
cease existing
& the
world comes
to naught.
Filed under poems & short jabs
I.
She was
short
on retorts
& mildly
out of
touch.
Wrenched loose,
full of rattles
& regrets.
Highly
opinionated
with
sealed lips.
Hairpin turns,
full steam
ahead to
the finish
line!
Red flags
waving,
shouts of
detour!
II.
How much
is that
doggie in
the window?
The one
with the
spike thru
its head.
We all
need something
to pet.
Something to
scrape off
the pavement
& make
love to.
We need
backup &
allegiance
& a
working
vocabulary.
III.
Will this
be the
day?
The day
the home
team returns
victorious &
the church
bells ring?
The day
the ban
is lifted?
Many are
called but
few answer.
Why step
into an
ambush?
Why not
just turn
& run?
Oh, run
little Sheba!
The Wolf
Pack is
descending,
evil men
with long
swords.
Remember what
mother said?
Legs crossed,
eyes closed,
stiff upper
lip &
a quart
jar of
Vaseline.
Say your
prayers,
little Sheba.
Walk the
last lonely
mile.
Filed under poems & short jabs
In the
name of
the father
in the
name of
the Roman
Empire in
the name
of Trout
Fishing in
America in
the name
of all
the dead
Kennedys in
the name
of all that
makes sense
& all that
doesn’t &
all the
people who
can’t tell
the difference
in the
name of
lame-brain
explanations &
this year’s
graduating class.
In the
name of
the trashmen
of our
dreams &
the garbage
collectors of
our wasted
days in
the name of
lost love
in the
name of
the worthy
opponent &
his second
loading the
pistol in
the name
of the
quick-change
artist &
the flimflam
man &
the seller
of snake
oil in
the name of
those who
go on
living past
the frontier
of hope
puking pebbles
& waving
their fists
at the
moon in
the name
of the
goon squad
& the
tennis champ
& all the
queers in
Chicago in
the name of
chocolate pudding
&
the subway
in the
name of
the nameless
fears &
blind alleys
in the
name of
exhumed
dead children.
In the
name of
legless beggars
& dwarves
in the
name of
the guillotine
& the
chopping block
where the
wood gets
split in
the name
of Attila
the Hun
& his
look-alike
cousins in
the name
of black
spiders in
your underwear
& in
the name
of whatever
it was
that just went
flashing by.
In the
name of
subservience &
the extra
time it
buys in
the name of
the lost
sock in
the laundromat
& the
pocket watch
that’s stopped
ticking in
the name of
poison darts
& Hiroshima’s
bright sky
in the
name of the
death rattle
the oxygen
tank &
Viagra in
the name
of the
whole ball
of wax
that melts
& runs
downhill
like a
river.
All hail the
Name King,
spinning thru
an impossible
sky.
Filed under poems & short jabs
It’s hard
to stay
on task
when you’ve
abolished your
reference points.
You’re
like a
blind man
in a
fun house
full of
mirrors,
following the
sound of
the
fat lady’s
laughter.
Filed under poems & short jabs
