Private Eye Lettuce

Three crates of Private Eye Lettuce,
the name and drawing of a detective
with magnifying glass on the sides
of the crates of lettuce,
form a great cross in man's imagination
and his desire to name
the objects of this world.
I think I'll call this place Golgotha
and have some salad for dinner.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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The Double-Bed Dream Gallows

Driving through
hot brushy country
the late autumn,
I saw a hawk
crucified on a
barbed-wire fence.

I guess as a kind
of advertisement
to other hawks,
saying from the pages
of a leading women’s
magazine,

“She’s beautiful,
but burn all the maps
to your body.
I’m not here

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Cat

We lay in the bed one sunny evening after making love
and decide to name our first girl Cat, we were going
to name her Cat, but now we have departed forever from our
love-making, and we do not have a little girl, nor any
children at all, and I am doomed to become the poet
in your dreams who falls continually like the evening rain.

poem by Richard Brautigan
Added by Dan Costinaş
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The Moon Versus Us Ever Sleeping Together Again

I sit here, an arch-villain of romance,
thinking about you. Gee, I'm sorry
I made you unhappy, but there was nothing
I could do about it because I have to be free.
Perhaps everything would have been different
if you had stayed at the table or asked me
to go out with you to look at the moon,
instead of getting up and leaving me alone with
her.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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My Nose Is Growing Old

Yup.
A long lazy September look
in the mirror
say it's true.

I'm 31
and my nose is growing
old.

It starts about 1/2
an inch
below the bridge
and strolls geriatrically
down
for another inch or so:
stopping.

Fortunately, the rest
of the nose is comparatively
young.

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Let's Voyage Into The New American House

There are doors
that want to be free
from their hinges to
fly with perfect clouds.

There are windows
that want to be
released from their
frames to run with
the deer through
back country meadows.

There are walls
that want to prowl
with the mountains
through the early
morning dusk.

There are floors
that want to digest

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Brautigan
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To England

There are no postage stamps that send letters
back to England three centuries ago,
no postage stamps that make letters
travel back until the grave hasn't been dug yet,
and John Donne stands looking out the window,
it is just beginning to rain this April morning,
and the birds are falling into the trees
like chess pieces into an unplayed game,
and John Donne sees the postman coming up the street,
the postman walks very carefully because his cane
is made of glass.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Your Catfish Friend

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond.I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Brautigan
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It's raining in love

I don't know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
a lot.

It makes me nervous.
I don't say the right things
or perhaps I start
to examine,
evaluate,
compute
what I am saying.

If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?"
and she says, "I don’t know,"
I start thinking: Does she really like me?

In other words
I get a little creepy.

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Brautigan
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Less Time

Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account
of everything, there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous
as my fingers and some others; I've distributed some pamphelts to the plants, but not all
were willing to accpet them. I've kept company with music for a second only and now I no
longer know what to think of suicide, for if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is
on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the re-entrance is on the other. You
see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't keep a reasonable account of them;
I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no one passes
(underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same.
May I introduce Madam Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps
turn back too, but I don't know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the
names of the towns have been replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to
me. Shall I go to A, return to B, change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I
don't miss the connection with boredom! There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah!
how beautiful the parallels are under God's perpendicular.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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