Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #5                        Page 12
                                   
Table of
Contents



Judgment Day with Vodka Martini


Dressed in something tailored
from Saville Row, buffed nails
perfect silver hair sculpted in
place, sits perched on a high
backed bar lounge chair as if it
were a throne like a man who
thought he was the kind of jesus
who could walk on quicksand,
part the East River as if it were
his personal Red Sea. Wants a
Mona Lisa Overdrive Vodka Martini,
whatever that was, with anchovies
and a two thousand dollar a trick
call girl to share it with.
Sends his wife and daughters to
the far ends of the earth with enough
money that they may never remember
who he was and their relationship
to him. Had made arrangements
to be buried in a family plot with
his kin, all of their feet pointing
toward the center, where the elders
lay, so that when the Judgment Day
came they would all rise together and
encounter nothing but their own kind.

  Alan Catlin__

The Existential Café


Where the talking heads
discussed Derrida and Kant.
Where the post doc femmes
thought every brooding man
they met was a second coming
Camus.
Where brandy bumps under-
cover of checked cloths mix
with espresso blasts for wide
eyes and babble tongues.
Where new age know nothings
opine on topics small and large
fact challenged but louder than
all the others.
Where the dead beat poets
snort powder in the washrooms,
trigger No-Smoking-Here alarms.
Where five dollar words are
all discounted to a buck forty nine.
Where I-phones are not allowed
and all the news is fake.
Where we sit by the hour because
we have nowhere else to go,
have nothing to do.


  Alan Catlin__
Ice Cream Days and Coke Bottle Nights


Roller skate waitresses in
legs-up-to-here shorts,
two unbuttoned down tops,
three on a hot night.
White Castle burgers:
five bucks feeds a family of
four with a decent tip for
the girl.
Gets mom out of the house
and away from the stove,
gives the kids a treat and
dad a major eye full.
Hot Summer nights, windows
rolled down for hot, limpid
air, ventilation for unfiltered
cigarettes.
Clip onto window trays,
bring your own green glass
Coke bottles, discard when
empty under nearby elevated
commuter railway supports.
Bottles that can be repurposed
as weapons to be used on
unsuspecting, ride-the-milk-train
cheaters and drunks.
Those lost soul losers destined
to be robbed and beaten blind,
if they’re lucky, if not, left for
dead under concrete stairways
like just so much garbage,
not to be found for days, missing
persons.
Oh, the stink of it, the grease.

  Alan Catlin__

Night of the Living Dead                        *


He was the kind of guy
who thought Poontang was
the capital of North Korea
and that Jesus’ Son was a
book about a close relative
of the son of God or a DVD
found at a church rummage
sale that could have been
sold as never watched, new.
Thought the Summer of rolling
blackouts was the end of the world.
Spent the best part of a night
during one of those, crouched
in a corner of his darkened
shotgun shack room with a loaded
weapon waiting for the mobs
of the undead to come. Sat
listening to water from melting
foodstuff in his freezer fill
the drip pan underneath his
dormant fridge unaware that
he was one pitchfork short
of a mob in the hid mind.
Thought the sun had supernovaed
in his face while he slept
but it was just the three way
bulb on high from a standing
lamp shining in his eyes.

  Alan Catlin