Alan Catlin

Writing a noir novel with
No plot. Eccentric or Oulipian.
New wave. Or deranged. Created
to fit in that hard to fill space between
Annette’s beach blanket bingo and Kobe
Abe. Between Samuel Beckett and MTV. 

Before there were Slaves
of New York there was a
“kind of herpes simplex
of the heart.” A Cannibal 
in NY. Temporary Dwellings.
Rites of Strangers. A Certain
Age.  As David Giannini said
“I wander lonely in the cloud.”

My stone Jesus is bigger than
your stone Jesus.  Stoned Jesus.
Imagine.  Public works project
or tourist attraction. Lourdes or
Our Lady of the Bleeding Heart.
Towers of Power or power plays.
Babel or Baal. 

Twerking with Jesus. Tweaking with Jesus.
Twisting with Jesus.  Mardi Gras or Carnival.
Black Orpheus or Orpheus in the Underworld.
The Can Can or Do You Think I’m Sexy.
Rod Stewart or Jules Offenbach. Stripping on
the silver pole or slip sliding away. Eurydice’s 
dilemma. Join the conga line from hell or take 
it all off. Party ‘til you drop.

Tie a yellow ribbon round the old.
Killing tree. Silent Spring or Strange
Fruit. Bats. Louisville slugger or 
Old Hickory. Naked bats. Vampire
bats. White nosed and fanged. Hanging
loose or hanging high. Not a Clint Eastwood

Itchykoo Park or Echo Park. 
Stinging nettles or echolocation.
Some prefer. Not the third baseman.
The novel. What did you do there.  
I got high. What did you see there. 
Golden Apples of the Sun.  Small faces.
Awaiting touchdown. It’s all too beautiful.

“I love the dark and it loves me.”
According to Diane Seuss. Pick a
sonnet. Any sonnet.  They are all
dark. Frankly.  A darker shade of
black. Not Los Bravos. Like slinging
drinks in a hole for the spiritually dead.
Like planting bulbs in a crisis garden.
Like cultivating varietals for a poison plot.
Blarney Castle has one.

Holy, Holy, Holy. Allen Ginsberg howling
Or dashboard jesus.  Spirit lamps. Banquet
Hot tray sterno. Chicken wing bone warmers.
Relics. Of a feast. Heaven bones. Papal bulls.
Satan’s matadors. All hail to. The Association.
B-Side. Spiritual throngs or spiritual thongs.

Alan Catlin is a poet, editor and wordsmith currently living in Upstate NY. Among his most recent publications is a group of poems about coming of age in the 60's, Sunshine Superman (Cyberwit) ,and The Road to Perdition (Alien Buddha), three chapbooks length collections in one book, from a series of Noir movie poems now eleven chapbooks long under the working title Hollyweird.

Collations of earlier poems from the series which the above pieces are from have appeared as two books, the first, Memories, is from Alien Buddha, and the second, Memories Too, is from Dos Madres. There's a third ready to go.
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