Dennis Hinrichsen


[ANASAZI LOVE SONG] [W/GLEN CAMPBELL]

                                             Galveston, oh Galveston
                                             I am so afraid of dying


                                             —O pristine city of the brain // water rising
along the Texas coast // when I am no longer shore enough for you
to keep loving me & I can’t // or won’t // now anger licking clean its 
plate // a name forgotten // wife // daughter // even the beloved dog
who hunkered against my leg for warmth because she was hurt
that time in California when I was young & Erin was cooking & 
Sophie’s feet were sore from all the hiking & so she was rubbing them 
hard // both hands // & we were drinking beers & letting the television 
run // that last place they lived in Oakland I’m pretty sure // West
Street // just down from Montgomery BART // all this remembering
just me exiting right before your eyes // last train // last trick //
a prestige // —O Galveston dear Galveston please grant me one last song
to play until the Southwest is cathedral in my eyes again & my
wife can see // too // what I am dreaming—that day at Chaco // Pueblo
Bonito // when we leaned against the inner walls & let the tourists pass 
like some tech-savvy tribe // tour bus idling // covered w/dust & next
world elsewhere // until they were gone & we were still alive //
inside our bodies // these ruins // & desert wind alone was our music 



[BOX OF LIGHT W/MICHAEL WINTERBOTTOM IN IT] or [limitless icy wastes] 
[THIS DESIRE FROM THE LATIN WE CALL libido]

                              Show rock concert, show sex, show icy wastes of Antarctica. 
                              Repeat eight times. That's essentially the structure of 
                              Michael Winterbottom's 9 Songs, a movie that marks an 
                              important director's attempt to deal with explicit sex.
                                  	“Songs Doesn’t Score,” Roger Ebert


     —won’t see love like this anytime soon // not really backlit but 
still a fin of loveliness there // radio on // high in the dark // soft 
notes // old jazz // but not really listened to // it was concentration //
pooling // we were after // stratas of ice & melting // minimal
—yes—but mouth // monotonous—yes // but tongue // our 
conversation wisps of fingertips & breathing // I’d revealed secrets // 
there was a sash // I expected she would not keep them // the 
infinitesimally subtle betrayals happening elsewhere // in rooms less 
white so there was always then // at least // illusions of honesty // in 
another world less Mediterranean with sunlight // —O limitless icy
wastes // you are byproduct now // part memory & dying // little cuts
of time that are me fast forwarding to naked bodies writhing 



[psalm #27] [W/GODZILLA IN IT & MY IPHONE & A SUPERBUG]


                              			—O gon-uh-ree-uh I can spell you now

you are a burn again in a man in England you are so keen
to live as does this newsfeed desiring to be my virus // 
I think both of you infect me now // I have to put my phone
down to cure a little package of time // put my poem
down // but still the idea infects the brain // —O gonorrhea
you hack your self to hack the body // you plagiarize & collage
another bacteria’s resistant codes // you will be Godzilla soon //
you will be MRSA // because that’s the form our savior
takes—a little cleansing first & then a body count // that’s how
my mother counted all the way to 1 // that residual wetness
that was her last living breathing so imbued w/resistance
I barely touched her so afraid of contagion // & then that lizard
face—I thought you were our friend—bending down to melt
all the brittle rods & cones—those dying eyes—w/atomic breath



[WHAT HAPPENED IS THIS] [I GOT OLD] [I GOT SENTIMENTAL]


			—what happened is this // I got old //
I got sentimental // I fell in love with everything //
EXAMPLE—James Booker—the Bayou Maharajah—
that was easy // EXAMPLE—Jerry Lewis—that was hard //
but it was spring & there was big noise in the yard
& so I said yes // many times yes // yes
to that cascade of notes—to Vitalis-slicked hair //
manicured nails // I preferred the chandelier
in the brain but most days I was just a 60 watt bulb
w/face & eyes // if I got my hands on a dog
when I was out for a walk—great—
or heard a red-winged blackbird down by the river
(they are suddenly just here // they weren’t last year)—
or maybe I just watched two or three minutes
of a kid’s first bicycle ride // yeah // that’s what love is //
a tense wobbly ride over busted concrete //
helmet like a piece of outer space // until you crash //
yeah // love crashes // but you get back up //
tighten that strap & power down the sidewalk // streamers
flying // legs churning that impossibly easy gear
twice the speed of the wheels // pedals the color of popsicles

Dennis Hinrichsen's most recent work is This Is Where I Live I Have Nowhere Else To Go, winner of the 2020 Grid Press Poetry Prize. New poems in a number of US print and online journals including The American Journal of Poetry, The Maine Review, Map Literary and Tinderbox Poetry Journal. He lives in Lansing, Michigan.

 
 

previous page     contents     next page