Two Poems

by Robert Beveridge



p. 88: “wood” should be “word”.

p. 127: the existential basis
            of “fuck you” is covered
            in Heidegger’s Being and Time,
            pp. 129-151.

p. 263: When I was nine years old,
            I fell out of a tree.The flight
            was short, interminable,
            the crack of a scapula
            on hard-packed soil,
            the breath, how it fled
            the lungs like scared officers
            on the Lusitania.

p. 274: “mire” should be “morass”.

p. 391: Charles Bukowski never,
            in fact, inhabited Palos Verdes;
            nor did the subject sleep
            with Leni Riefenstahl,
            as he often claimed
            after too much cheap porter.

p. 505: “Conclusion” is not, of course.

p. 510: “fin” should be “fen”.

Fuck Me, Kitten
For William S. Burroughs

this was not
a bullet to the forehead
in imitation of William Tell;

this was not
the overloaded rush
of Moroccan junk and cheap red wine;

this was not
the hack, burnt lungs
of exposure in the rain on tracks.

No, this was
simple, brutal:
the stopped heart, the slumber.

Robert Beveridge is possessed of a strange, uncontrollable magic: when he moves to a major city, that city’s baseball team wins its championship series soon after (’69 Orioles, ’79 Pirates, ’93 Phillies, ’95 Indians). He currently still lives outside Cleveland and plans to only live in towns with populations of 10,000 or less for the rest of his life. Recent work has appeared in Third Wednesday, Guide to Kulchur, and The Starving Artist, and is forthcoming in Poetry Breakfast and Sonic Boom.

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