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Tuesday, February 13, 2024

Featuring Jack Phillips Lowe




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.




APPLES AND ORANGES 

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. 

Everyone doesn't need to see it."

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 2023Beatnik 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. 

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