Into Overtime
I do not want an expensive watch. My time
Is far too precious to me to be tracked and
Hacked to slivers on the face of such a
Thing, and I'm not much for trappings of
A life I don't, and wouldn't, lead. You've
Seen me, love. You call me shabby. Once,
You said, 'bohemian, ' but now, it seems,
You chafe at being tethered to a dowdy
Clod, who rushes home from work each
Day to pour a drink and agonize for words
To put on his computer. You, in clothes
And make-up close to dearer than all
That I own, insist I dress, so we can eat,
But I have spuds and sausage in the
Kitchen. What more would I need?
You fume. I see it in your face, and in
Your tapping, polished nails, and, though
I neither have a watch nor want one, I've
Become aware the hours are growing short
For you and me.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Peep Show
Do not think me dull or sappy, dear,
Or, worse, effete. I'm not. I'm thrilled
To watch you shed your clothes. The
Harshness of the hallway light is
Perfect for the dance you're doing,
So salacious, such a perfect segue
From our proper date, our first.
I hope it's not our last. Our beef
Was splendid. Was it not? And
All the wine, which entertained
Our tongues is now amok inside
Our heads, and, anyway, I meant
To say your dance is segue from
That altogether ordinary 'get-to-
Know-the-woman-you-were-hoping-
To -lay-down-upon' to truly laying
Down upon, but, dear, despite your
Mating dance, despite my drooling
Desperation, tented pants and
Eager hands, it was the way you
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poem by Lawrence Beck
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That's, Like, Really Profound. Isn't it?
I grind my ax out here, you twit,
Upon the nearest paving stone,
And use it on the objects and the
Villains I see going past. That
Stony wheel you keep inside,
The one which can't be worked
Without a year or two of theory
Classes, essays, explanations
For the dullness and the ragged
Edges of these concepts
(Lacking handles) which you
Label "poetry, " are not of any
Use to me. You may as well
Be masturbating. Close the
Door and call yourself an artist.
As you do your best, and,
Sticky-fingered, cash your grant,
The arbiters of taste applaud.
You're in a chapbook, labeled
Tomb, to which the people
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poem by Lawrence Beck
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In a Time of Diminished Expectations
If I should turn ecstatic, slap me. If I babble as do crippled
Souls, your Cranes and Dickinsons, be sure to drown me
In your well, and, if I take to big ideas, the sort which
Seemed so much in vogue about a hundred years ago,
And which, as if to compensate for all the rest of life
Becoming overly accelerated, called for use of foreign
Words and ancient myths and all of that, be sure to
Wrest my pen from me. We've watched the culture
Fall to ruin, fallen for all sorts of cant, and learned,
At least, I think we've learned, that elemental
Declarations, simple thoughts abruptly stated,
Said to be no more than what one mind believes
Its world is, have superceded big ideas. Another
Culture looms, I guess, and, with it, ecstasies and
Schema. I will hew to what I know...and hope
To slip your slap.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Evelyn
I don't dread coming here these days.
Okay, I do, but not so much as I did
Several weeks ago. The job remains
So dull as ever: slitting rolls of colored
Paper into smaller rolls, which printers
Turn to little stickers, 'Great for grilling! , '
Placed on trays of meat. The atmosphere
Remains oppressive. Someone from
The owner's clan emerges from an
Office every hour to complain I'm
Slow, and, I, while saying, 'Well,
I'm trying, ' dream of using filthy
Fingers to collapse the bastard's
Throat, and dancing on his lardy
Corpse, but, on the far side of the
Floor, in hair net and a smudgy
Smock, a lovely Filipino woman
Runs a press and waves to me,
And we've been having lunch
Together. Soon, I'll ask her out
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poem by Lawrence Beck
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A Note Left on the Kitchen Counter
I won't write you poems with tricky rhymes
Or references to gods or foreign phrases
Only nerds would know, or gush about
The nature that is nice enough, but far from
Here, or ponder all those bigger questions
Stronger heads than mine attempt answer
(Though without success) . I'll speak to
You in simple terms, and strip away, as you
Have stripped, the clothing of superfluous
Politeness to pursue my point: I've never
Seen someone so lovely, clothed or naked,
Standing, prone, and never, or, at least,
Not lately, felt myself so overcome
With longing as I'm feeling now. I wish
You wouldn't go back home. I wish
You'd stay (and remain naked) . Poetry
Is art, I guess, but, in this instance, it's
Persuasion. I won't write a tricky rhyme.
I doubt I can. That's not my goal.
I'm asking only that I find you here
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poem by Lawrence Beck
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The Computer Said That I'd Find You Bewitching
9/7/12
We haven't led remarkable lives.
We once went off to college.
Since then, we have worked
Amid earth-colored cubicles,
Bald-pated guys, adding numbers
Which never assumed much
Importance. We marked
Anniversaries, married, and
Even made children, and
Split up, and, now, in our
Loneliness, meet in a bar
In a hotel downtown to do
What? Make a future of pasts
Which are pitiful? You've
Proven boring, as, surely,
Am I. If only I'd gone
Behind lines in Cambodia,
If you'd embezzled some
Plutocrat's dough, and you
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poem by Lawrence Beck
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An October Evening at the Imperial Tavern
The sky's a fiery Turner smear. The sun
Has set. Two jets have made an X above
Where it has gone. The men in camo
Crowd the bar to parrot phrases they've
Been fed by parrots paid by plutocrats.
The barmaids wriggle close with beers
And flash their cleavage for their tips.
They dream of severing the hands which
Pay and save, and grope. Everywhere,
A sense that what we'd had is gone is
Growing stronger. Everywhere, the end
Is near, the titties fake, the saviors sordid.
Plutocrats, in pleasanter surroundings,
Still will celebrate, but we can see the
Sun has set. The X will mark where
We have fallen. All the fancy phrases
We had used to frame a reign which
Didn't last so long as we had thought
Are ringing hollow. Hear them now.
We're Egypt, England, ancient Rome,
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poem by Lawrence Beck
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Conditional Sanctuary
You may take some comfort here behind my hedge,
But, if you do, I must insist you rarely speak. I do
Not want to hear of what you bought today when
You were shopping, or of the disgusting products,
Churned out on assembly lines, which you decided
You should eat. I do not want to talk about
Celebrities or any of the vile doings of the faceless
Frauds who buzz in legislatures, pulled along by,
As they're pushing on the strings of our colossus,
Run amok from sea to sea. I do not want my peace
Disturbed. If you should speak, then note the
Silence of my guards, the arching trees, and say
You now can hear the birds, whose calls don't
Carry very far, and say you're fine with sitting,
Watching wind upon the grain below, and
Shadows slowly growing longer. Say, in short,
You understand why almost no one is invited
Here behind my hedge.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Treatise Traded for Tract
At one time, I so loved your lips
That I could overlook the cruel
Words which issue out of them,
And I so loved your dancing eyes
That I could try to see you as
The rebel who you said you were,
But time has passed and passion's
Ebbed. I freeze in fright (or is it
Hatred? How those two go hand
In hand, as we did once, but never
Mind) beside you at your parents'
Table, beggared, not by lack of
Food, but lack of social integration.
I don't own a polo shirt, and my
Car doesn't peel and purr. I haven't
Made it yet into a comfy cube, from
Which I place my bets on teams
I've never seen, and I believe, as
You asserted, that the beaten
Folks, who haunt the rooms
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poem by Lawrence Beck
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