The Poetry Of.
Dan Gallik...................................................
THE DOUBTING MOTIONS
OF A MAN
Should have killed himself.
The sweet despair of death
would have conquered blind
living in a soft, deep couch.
His astrology would have
worked. The centric earth
would have swallowed his
living in the ugly city.
As is death, so is a sphere.
His lady would have become
an axle tree whose terminus is
the centering of an old friend.
The poles of the zodiac would
become wiggly as jello. Pals
would not mourn their enemy.
And love,... so fucking what!
Darwin Looked And Then Left
These islands live in the sea,
on both sides of the strait.
Those that live there carry
them away like slaves, starve
them into decent submission and
keep them only to themselves.
The islands have nothing to
lose except their liberty.
Dove and struck the deep sea,
yet, they are darts for fifty
people who inhabit them, who
chew them up, especially during
the summer. How long they last
no islander ever brings up. Two
souls are isles used by six
footers who act like they make
efforts to live upon land that
should be left alone, left lonely
out in the deep as ships go
by to destinations that smell.
The Frictionless Gift
Of A Turtledove
His bloodheat is as windowless
as the love I know he has for
me. Linn was talking about a
new fellow, Jimmy Sadders, who
lived over on E. 140th off of
old Buckeye Rd. I got feelings
he’s gonna stick, be around &
with me through everlastingness.
Linda had just lost her career
as a busser for Cool’s Last
Truck Stop off of the Lakeland
Freeway. She was in no mood
for love. Said, I gotta notion
your full of Linn-shit again.
I heard this afore, like Jim’s
the negative of infinity. Like
this’ll last like two years afore
you got the adoration bug for
this brute. Anyway, when’s, a...
the last time you worked, I mean
you’re getting to be esoteric
about life cause you get to sleep
in all the time. Linn, staring,
staring out into the brown tones
of winter in Cleve, said, I got
it,...you and death have become
partners, and it’s, I mean,...
death is slanting you and turning
you into a Waiting For Godot kind
of dicy humanoid, who spouts her
aches to everyone around. I
ain’t got that, a,.. malaise, yet.
