“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.”― Leonardo da Vinci
FLASHBULB DANGER
The night Ophelia left Tecumseh,
she didn’t say a fucking word.
She didn’t steal anything, either.
While Tecumseh was out whoring,
though, Ophelia did go
through his record collection
and switch every Bob Dylan disk
from its companion jacket
to another, random sleeve.
So forever after, whenever
Tecumseh reached for Zimmerman,
he knew not what he’d get—
his ears might yearn
for Blood On the Tracks,
but taste The Freewheelin’ Bob instead.
But Tecumseh never bothered
to undo the chaos
Ophelia had wrought.
This crap-shoot, you see,
reminded him of
his long-gone girl and
the flashbulb danger
she’d brought.
TWO EXTREMES
On the last job, you watched
as your name listed
on the weekly work schedule
became as rare as
a Bigfoot sighting.
You watched as
your bank account
became an ice cube,
melting in your hand.
You watched as
your beard grew out,
just so you could say
you did something
while sitting around
all those days when
you were figuratively employed,
but literally not working.
On the latest job, you watch
as your name is listed
on the weekly work schedule
as often as
the month, the day and the year.
You watch as
your bank account
becomes a summer mushroom,
sprouting—a little bit—
seemingly overnight.
You watch as
your beard grows out,
this time because
you forget to shave
as the job eats your days
like Pac-Man.
Hell lurks in
the space between
two extremes.
THE DOG WON’T EAT SUPPER TONIGHT
And immediately, Graig flips into Doomsday Mode.
A scene from Old Yeller pops into his brain—
Tommy Kirk, holding a shotgun,
walking into the barn to put Old Yeller down.
Graig fails to consider that maybe Lady,
his 12-year old German Shepherd,
just doesn’t feel like eating then.
He doesn’t stop to consider that,
perhaps, the dog doesn’t care for
Rachael Ray’s shitty, overpriced dog food.
And not for a moment does Graig recall
the dozen or so tidbits, Milk Bones
and the one-fourth of a Taco Bell burrito
that he, the ultimate helicopter pet parent,
stuffed Lady with throughout the day.
Noooo… instead Graig has, between his ears,
Photoshopped his 48-year old head
onto Tommy Kirk’s teenaged body,
as Kirk does What a Man’s Gotta Do and
Bob Dylan sings Knocking on Heaven’s Door.
After the shotgun blast, Graig drops himself
into an Edgar Allan Poe set piece—
gray sky, driving rain, and a Gothic gravesite
at which Graig, clad in black, weeps openly.
In the meantime, Lady dozes comfortably
on the living room sofa.
Graig is kind of an asshole, you know.
AFTER YOU, DR. FREUD
Last night, I dreamt that
I was sitting on a white horse
in the middle of a desert.
There were slender female arms
wrapped around my waist.
A set of firm breasts pressed against my back.
A pair of moist, full lips brushed my cheek.
Occasionally, long locks of brunette hair
wafted across my face via a warm breeze,
then were promptly flicked away
by a tan and delicate hand.
This scenario alone
would’ve been enough for me.
But abruptly, into it chugged
a Mad Max-style dune buggy,
its shiny red chassis sitting high
above a sputtering, fully exposed engine.
The vehicle sported four axles
that were at least three feet long
and capped by chunky black tires
with gleaming silver spokes.
The dune buggy rolled up
to the horse, the lady and me.
I could see that its driver
was none other than
Sir Paul McCartney, dressed in
his classic gray Beatles suit.
“’Ello, mate!” chirped Sir Paul.
“When’s the Orange Bowl this year?”
“Sometime in December,” I replied.
“Probably after Christmas.”
Sir Paul gave me a “thumbs up,”
turned his dune buggy around
and zoomed back over
the sandhill from whence he came.
The woman, whose face I never saw,
started to gently finger my nipples
through my shirt as the scene
faded out like an old movie.
After you, Dr. Freud.
Jack Phillips Lowe
Bio:
Jack Phillips Lowe is a lifelong Chicago-area resident. His poems have appeared in Clark Street Review, Nerve Cowboy, and Creativity Webzine. Lowe’s most recent poetry chapbook is Jupiter Works on Commission (Middle Island Press, 2015). And he believes that Drooper, of the Banana Splits, is the most underrated rock bassist of the 1960s.
Hi, Jack. Maybe we all need an appointment with Dr. Freud? I got visuals on all and smiled, pondered, and reflected. Thanks for starting my day on an enjoyable note.