3 Poems by
Carter Monroe
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SATURDAY MATINEE
(Thinking About A Poolroom in 1979)
I.
nothing brown for me, thanks
just some natural lights and
keep'em coming - i know
what i'm here for
what i came to do
it's the movie thing again
will i be a stand-in
or maybe the star this time
will the scenes replay themselves
or is there something new in the offing
some guy's going to the jukebox
what might come forth
who knows
will it say more about the purveyor
or the purveyed
i want to tell him
want to shout
"don't play dionne warwick
it'll make that fat guy
who you don't know
start thinking about his ex
and i've seen that too many times"
time for a reposition
drunk goes in the bathroom
comes out sober
the lines have been drawn
the air force guy comes in with his woman
i've never known if they were married
she never drinks
"can't handle it" she says
but there was that one time
she came alone and poured'em down
like someone who'd just crossed a desert
they closed early for a Saturday night
two of' em had her on the second table
they never said how she got home
she and air force came in the next day
she, subdued
he had slicked-back hair
everybody looked at everybody
i shot pool with him on the front table
two-dollar sixball
II
guy wearing a ball cap
comes barreling through the door
goes straight for the music
hank, jr. comes forth
no guesswork here
give him a miller in the bottle
two guys playing gin in the back
it's two o'clock now
they started last night
ten bucks a game
now it's up to fifty
the short one - the older guy
brought the first massage parlors
to the provinces
married this girl twenty years younger
after she broke up with her married boyfriend
it was something like three weeks after that
seated beside me is the necktie
the only one who ever comes and stays
the phone's always ringing
starts just before he walks in
he's a salesman'
works for some gas company
mostly he dates the big blonde
got 'em out to here dontcha know
but it's his other woman who calls
and calls
and calls . . .
but the blonde looks so much better
he beat the crap out of a guy
about three weeks back
caught him fucking her in her trailer
the guy's kid was sitting in the car waiting
the bartender
the one who flunked out of law school
called that "a whore fuck"
III
me and pete are buddies
he works at the drapery plant
i'm at the furniture factory
we watch the redskins on sunday
he keeps up with car racing
likes that new guy, earnhardt
i was fucking with him once
put my knife in his face
he looked at me kinda weird
they told me later
he'd done time for cutting up a dude
my favorite rackman is the history major
he's moody as hell
but never turns it toward me
he's the only one in this crowd
other than me
without a nickname
my time at the jukebox
i'd only been coming here a month
when i had 'em put
pretty woman and jailhouse rock in the mix
i get up and play 'em both
the couldn't be lawyer asks
"who's responsible for the king being on there"
they get out the jug, the pill bottle
six of us pull
i lose
"set 'em up" i say
"shit, set up the whole bar"
they all grin
"now goddammit shut up
it's time for andy griffith"
i grab the remote without challenge
tryin' to sit in
litred sniff drawn from stretched skin emancipates the rationale
riffed in imbibe by blurring locust rage - the whirring is endless
trapped in womb/stomach by a stench of inerrancy fallible only
in terms of a forced misunderstanding subject to impersonal tastes
the key guy is the bass player but you don't hear it on their records
remanded handicap and a bowl of stew in combat with spoons and
facials drawn from blood - the narcissists impinge the mirrors and
superstitions crack the sidewalks - the bailiff slaves compound the
misled ironies trapping themselves in an avatar of confusions
the drummer's pissed. too much space in the last break
a methiolate caulking spread with a splintered tongue depressor
around the edges of meteor bludgeoned insomnia - the drink sours
ensuing the net - making way for the hammer - a pitchfork is without
the decadence transformed and eaten like a dirty piece of pavement
they catch it perfect on the second go round. the tenor beams
Ambush
in the craft's war the dopant light shines invisibly
to enmesh a scatological triumph of ethnology
the flouncing intellect survives by feel and the
wits procreate in an indecorous series of ups
and downs, the manner of all things understood
realms the corral, eschewing the metamorphosis,
belating the cathartic screeches that are seen but
not heard as the fire's shadows screen the cave
"it ain't here, boys. must be just beyond them
rocks. we been lookin' for hours and ain''t found
nothin' but busted eggshells and a buncha old
rifle balls. them indians'll leave after dark."
the seeming melanotic protection camouflages
hecate's trail, the wrath follows in notorial
splendor as boulders and bushes move like
magic mitochondriacs covering recognitions
"whatcha mean, 'how we gonna get back?'
i ain't no leader and that half breed musta
got snatched durin' the night. reckon we'll
hafta split up. maybe meet on the south side."
the wind has a mind of its own and swirls
as a dusting creature of discontent unseen
horseman watch from the ridges their own
water protected from the imminent nothing
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