MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES
I like to believe
that famous poetry
lost boys Lew Welch,
Weldon Kees and
John Hoffman
did not die when
Wikipedia said
they did. No way.
At the time
of their vanishing,
they each seemed
to be moving south---
Kees told friends
he was thinking
of trying on
a new identity
in Mexico.
Hoffman was in Mexico,
where he reportedly
died under
"mysterious circumstances."
Welch, in a last note
to his Beat comrades,
wrote that he was
"heading southwest."
What if they all
defrauded the Reaper
by holing up in
some obscurely
funky pueblo
just below Veracruz?
Wouldn't it be cool
if this trio of
bookish booze hounds
happened to trip over
each other's feet
while stumbling in to
the same pulqueria,
jonesing for a fix?
There they'd sit,
drinking themselves
under a shared table,
each loving his invisibility
and delighting the others
with slurred readings
of poems that existed
only between their
mouths and ears.
Wouldn't this finish
beat all hell
out of a
question mark
within parentheses?
SOMEWHERE ON THE WAVES
I was up at 2:00AM---
the need to speak
with Simon and Garfunkel
pried my eyes wide open.
They were there
in a couple of keys.
We hung out together,
shooting the shit, until
the sky turned pink.
For sure, they did
most of the talking.
By daybreak, though,
thanks to them,
my mind was clear.
Paul and Artie---
best friends live
between the buttons,
somewhere on the waves.
SHARP EDGES
Thorn enters the kitchen
carrying the day’s mail.
Among the bills and catalogs
is a full-color wall calendar
from the World Wildlife Fund,
trolling for a donation that
Thorn isn’t going to send them.
“What’s that?” asks Donna.
She’s seated at the kitchen table,
painting her fingernails
a quiet shade of rose.
“A nice calendar,” Thorn replies,
pulling it from its envelope.
He leafs through the months.
“Looky here, Don. November’s the best.
November has a picture of a gray wolf,
sitting on top of a wintery hill.
Wolf’s probably stalking snowshoe rabbits.
Reminds me of the time me and Mike
went hunting in Spooner, Wisconsin.
I think I’ll hang this up on the fridge.”
Donna shudders and crumples her face
like a piece of tinfoil.
“Hell no, you won’t!” she spits.
Thorn shrugs his shoulders.
“Why not? This kitchen is too bland.
It could use a bit of color.
Besides, the calendar’s free.”
Donna caps her nail polish bottle
and gives Thorn a cold stare.
“Do you want that thing
staring back at us all day,
every day, reminding us both
of how much time we wasted?
Of all the things we failed to do?
Of how close we’re getting to our graves?
Not in my house, mister. Throw it away.”
Thorn, suddenly cautious, uses his fingertips
to hold the calendar by a corner, as if
he just realized that it has sharp edges.
He walks the calendar to the trash can
and carefully drops it in.
William is hunkered down
on the couch in the front room.
Several CD's and empty Miller Lite cans
are strewn across the coffee table before him.
Headphones clamped to his ears
are connected, by a thin wire,
to a portable CD player in his lap.
William's girlfriend, Addison,
eases into the room and
sits beside him on the couch.
She reaches over and tickles
his salt-and-pepper goatee.
William ignores her.
After a brief pause,
she reaches over and pulls
the thin wire from the CD player.
"So," Addison giggles,
"are we going out tonight or not?"
William glares at Addison.
He reconnects the wire
and fiddles with the CD player.
"Not tonight," he snaps.
"I've got to hear this."
Addison considers the CD's
as she plays with a lock
of her neon-blue hair.
"So that's it?" she asks.
"You're just going to sit here
all night, listening to
dad rock on caveman tech?
You can do that any time."
William adjusts his headphones.
"This is Material Issue," he says.
"Today's the day their lead singer,
Jim Ellison, committed suicide
twenty-six years ago. He came from
the same town in Illinois that I did.
The Ish was my favorite band.
Under-appreciated, then and now."
Addison picks up a CD, glances at it
and replaces it on the coffee table.
"He was like Kurt Cobain, huh?
Why do all of your rock stars
kill themselves?" she asks.
William pulls a headphone cup
away from one ear;
muffled music drifts through the air.
"Addison, please," he says.
"You're comparing apples and oranges.
I'll explain it to you another time.
I need to listen to the Ish."
Addison folds her hands and sighs.
"Well," she says, "if this guy Ellison
means so much to you, why don't you
upload a tribute to him on YouTube?
I'll help. Everyone will see it then."
"I'm not a veejay," William replies.
"Besides, this is personal.
Addison sorts through the CD's,
arranging them into a neat stack.
"You know, Will? You should
listen to Meet Me at the Altar.
Their lyrics are like life."
William shakes his head.
"You, and Meet Me at the Altar,
should listen to Material Issue.
Their lyrics are life."
Coolly, Addison stands up
and walks to the front door.
She removes her coat and purse
from hooks on a nearby wall.
She throws both over one arm.
Addison uses her other arm
to open the door.
"William," she says, "you're old."
Addison steps out the door
and shuts it behind herself.
"Thank God," William replies,
as he sits back
to absorb the music.
Jack Phillips Lowe was born, raised and still proudly resides in the Chicago area. He has contributed poems and short stories to Clutch 2023, Beatnik Cowboy and Red Fez Magazine, among other outlets. His most recent book, Flashbulb Danger: Selected Poems 1988-2018 (Middle Island Press, 2018), is available from Amazon.com. Lowe is currently working on a new poetry chapbook.
