Karloff in Drag
“Nous sommes la triste opacité de nos spectres futurs.”
Sea tides fall
and hermits crawl
through dark,
deserted streets,
and Italian is
the language of
music.
Harpo in Spock ears
blows his flat horn,
and in crystal caves
we pray
for darkened sleep.
We pray to balance
above the crowd
on narrow twine,
where Mr. Kurtz ain’t dead;
he’s but sleeping like a babe.
And Spanish is
the loving tongue.
If you’d like to leave a message
for Mr. Kurtz,
please press one
as you search for forgiveness
at the bottom of the well.
He will respond
at his earliest convenience
and cast a final stone.
And English is
the language
born for brawls.
“We are but the sad opacity of our future specters.” Mallarmé, Stephane. “Toast Funèbre.” Stephane Mallarmé: Selected Poems. C. F. MacIntyre ed. & tran. P 58. U of California P, 1952.
Hash Bash: Ann Arbor, 1994
We parked atop
the Maynard St. garage
for the annual rally.
Dressed to the nines
in my favorite tie-dyed
t-shirt: purple w/ skull and roses,
it was unseasonably warm.
We approached a group
passing a joint
and gazing over the rooftops
of the city.
The river in the distance,
winding through
leafless April trees,
cold from snowmelt
and the memory of John Sinclair.
They shared their smoke
and we joined in that
age-old ritual:
puff, puff, pass.
I coughed out my hit
when the haggard guy
in white sneakers and
acid-washed jeans
pulled up his pant leg
to reveal an ankle tether.
He laughed about
breaking parole,
and we silently
left the car park.
After Soccer Practice
We shed our shin guards
on the sidelines
and hoofed it to the bend
beneath the Howard St. bridge.
Parents chatting
in the parking lot
as we dove into
the cooling waters
holding adolescence
for another
August afternoon.
The Bear River creeps
north from Melrose,
in essence, just a smelt stream,
but for us,
spectacular and pure.
For us,
our private
fountain of youth.
Aunt Pam (1953-1996)
“Never again,”
she said over burger and fries.
“Never again will I bring
that spoon to my nose.”
That was our last lunch together.
She rarely ate after that.
Her main nourishment
came from junk.
Never took a shot,
the nose was enough.
Sick and transparent,
within a year Pam went
from burger parlor
to funeral parlor.
I knew. I watched from afar.
I did nothing.
What could be done?
Who could be told?
Post-memorial,
we cleaned her house.
“Help and you can have
her record collection.”
I jumped at the chance.
She had such taste in music –
and in other things –
Talking Heads, Prince, Traffic, CSN.
I listen to those old records now and almost finish a side
without dwelling on
her descent into
that nightfall of demons.
“Pre-Roads Down” still
brings the tears, the
wild gravity. Jim Gordon’s
crying percussion:
emblem of the thrashing sting.
Junk sick and fancy free.
Her pain, her loss,
her sense of justice burned
as tar terrorized
her tattered form.
As she slowly said
“goodbye.”
About the Author
Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Pushcart Nominee and a Lecturer III at Eastern Michigan University where he teaches literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has recently appeared in various publications like CP Quarterly, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Provenance Journal, Lavender and Lime Review, About Place, Novus Review, Fiery Scribe, and Fahmidan Journal, and most recently in Menacing Hedge, The Brazos Review, and Idle Ink. In his free time, he obsesses over soccer and comic books.
Twitter: @aandrefpeltier
Website: www.andrefpeltier.com