- Daniel Gene Barlekamp
Seven Poems
a memory scribbled on the back of an envelope
that night
clipping coupons
by the light
above the kitchen sink
you listened to the crickets
chanting in tones
of friends long gone
you didn’t see me
standing
on the landing
the smell of nail polish
poisoned the air
Carlo Rossi
staining a juice glass
blue tulips
lead paint
but for all that
lobster was on sale
at ShopRite
alive and kicking
Vacant Lot
There used to be a house here.
Suburban nature
has taken over now:
chestnuts and beer cans
and trash bags and crabgrass
bleeding
into the blackened soil
beneath.
You crawl from the ground,
your sickness
staring me in the face,
spindly arms
reaching out,
but your withered roots
lash you still
to the scorched earth, and
I wish you could hold me forever.
A Dream of Salem, Massachusetts
on my right
a river
the kind that exists
only in dreams
on my left
the record store
shuttered
a spraypainted sign
“press here to raise gate”
pointing nowhere in particular
ahead
an apartment block
soviet
scarred
scowling over lebanon
illuminated by fluorescent ribs
i am terrified
but not
of witches
Places No One Remembers:
The Octagon Tavern
Tiffin, OH
Some places only DNA remembers,
DNA
and the spear-shaped cocktail stirrer
forgotten in a pencil cup,
true vintage,
rescued years ago from the basement bar
of a dead relative,
a memento of the site
of our genetic memory,
where a jolly, red-nosed uncle
beat his wife
but sure was nice to his nephew,
taking the kid on plumbing jobs
whenever his own hands shook too much
for the finer work,
where a cousin rotted
from the inside out
before 40
but was a hit with the ladies while he was at it,
and anyway it’s alright
because he’s in his mother’s arms now,
and don’t you know mothers always favor
the troubled ones?
Maybe they’re all together,
a chorus of polluted angels singing
“In Heaven there is no beer,
that’s why we drink it here”
while watching over
those of us on Earth
who are waiting in the wings—
waiting for our wings—
to enter
that great Octagon Tavern in the sky.
Two Questions and an Answer
i
“Which cloud is God on?”
the boy asks.
“I don’t know,”
his mother says,
fiddling with the radio.
Outside the window,
a cemetery rolls by.
ii
“What happens when you die?”
the boy asks.
“The worms eat you,”
his mother says.
His father joins in,
singing:
“The worms crawl in,
the worms crawl out…”
Inside the boy’s chest
blooms a fear
that wasn’t there
before.
Noir in the Key of Chrome
Two people
sit across from each other
in a diner.
On the table between them,
a napkin holder,
an Uzi,
and a question:
How do you end up
stumbling along Route 1
in the rain?
One of them
is about
to find out.
Pennies in the Dark
Look into our unseeing eyes.
We scare you when we
juggle pennies in the dark,
swirl popcorn in water,
and drain the color
from the walls.
In our blindness,
we’ll try to shield you
from the torn feathers
scattered
in the road.
Daniel Gene Barlekamp is the author of poems and stories for adults and young readers. Most recently, his poetry has appeared in Seventh Quarry, underscore, Daikaijuzine, and elsewhere. Originally from New Jersey, U.S.A., he now lives with his wife and son in Massachusetts, where he works in immigration law.