Poetry Issue 1
Alan Catlin
The Invitation
There was just enough light
in the bar to tell she'd seen
some heavy duty action on
the front lines of love and sex
and death, was the kind of woman
who didn't have a particular type
of man she preferred; what was
around and available qualified
as a type. Asked for a light
in a deep whiskey voice so sharp
around the edges you could almost
see the drawn blood, hear her
screaming in the night for whatever
it was you would never be able
to provide her. "I've got the place,
if you've got the time." She was
saying in between deep swallows
of Wild Turkey 101 and French
inhalations of whatever unfiltered
death stick she was smoking,
said it in a way that was more
of a demand than an invitation.
Following her lead would be
a kind of suicide by intimate
contact and about as appealing.
Who in their right mind would
accept what she had to offer?
Who would refuse?
Wide and Moving
"I drank half the glass and remembered
all the novels I wanted to write but was
scared too shitless to even try."
David Peace, Nineteen Seventy Four
Dago red excites her.
She'll do anything for the price
of a gallon, anything twice for
the cost of a case and a pack
of butts she expects as her due
for services rendered, no questions
asked, no complaints, no recriminations
after. The ones who can afford her,
don't want what she has to offer.
The ones who can't, kiss the ground
she walks on, hoping she'll notice,
maybe look their way, but she never
does. Why would she? They have
nothing to offer, no future no past,
now is all that matters anyway,
when you have the need and she has
has it bad. Three tricks into any given
night, she begins to stagger. I hear the
sound of high heels biting into the pavement,
no longer counting the cadence of
a seasick heart but echoing the way
the sound a disembodied soul makes
on its way to a shallow grave.
