Category: Poems
monday morning elevator ride up to the office
riding with a slender young woman whose long copper hair
looks wet and is parted all awry
she yawns and groans
says, excuse me
i straighten my tie in the elevator’s mirrored wall
the yawning copper-haired woman looks at the elevator’s floor
looks at the elevator’s ceiling
whispers, whisper
the elevator’s bell dings at my stop
the doors slide open, i step out, hearing the elevator doors
slide closed behind me
a whispering noise
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
it has been quiet since your last call.
no faxes.
no visitors.
nothing of note in the mail.
still at my desk i sit, still.
the sun slips free of its bank of low clouds,
dropping slowly to its january horizon.
the branches of the grey trees are yellow.
i will go home now.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
it’s almost time for me to go to the office,
to see my smiling, sober, successful boss,
do some work for him and keep him from
knowing that his assistant (me)
is this morning ever so somewhat intoxicated
(stoned) and contemplating how it is my life
has turned out to be not quite the life i wanted
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
skinny junkies drag their squalling children
by their wrists through parking lots at discount chains.
rusting junkers’ ancient engines idle in the artificial light.
skinny junkies in hip-hugging pants
entice odd bookish lads who ought to be at home.
tattooed hate boys wearing women-beaters
rule the restless night, scrapping over scraps.
cops cruise whores who cruise for copless corners
where they can stand and give a wave and whistle.
skinny junkies smack their crying brats
and scream unheeded screams.
rusting junkers pull away in cloudy blue-white rumbles.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
frightened girls who want to be loved take whatever they’re given
convincing themselves that lies are true
that being robbed is the same as freely giving
frightened girls who want to be loved are blessings to the vain
cursings to themselves
subject at any time of night or day to random boot and slamming fist
frightened girls who want to be loved
mourning what they’ve taken
mourning all that has been given them
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
god’s covenant expired in the year of our lord the zinc penny,
impaled on the axis running from the berlin of the wannsee conference
to the chicago of the fermic pile
we live now as debtors
owing borrowed time greatly in excess of annual income
the animal smarter than wise,
cursed fat-head with opposable thumbs,
the show-stopping act of the monkey on its own back
better it would be to be the careless sparrow or the scuttering roach,
or the bothersome gnat striving at the window-pane
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
my daddy is
so cool he speaks
german and smokes
pot flirts with girls
half his age drives
at twice the limit
on the wrong
side of the road
eats the candies he
finds on the floor
takes me for
walks in rough
neighborhoods looks
evil in the eye
believes there is
nothing about himself
or his life that
isn’t a waste
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
twice in ten days, in neighborhoods five miles
apart, the same woman has approached me
on the streets. frantic, animated, hell-bent
on death, her cheeks ravaged, her breasts high and firm
underneath her nondescript shirts, her entire
being a suppressed scream of junkie and whore,
i paid no attention to the details
of her story. it’s always the same story.
i’ve flirted with enough bad company
to have heard it a time or two before,
though maybe never from a woman whose
breasts appeared so enticing. her waist was
narrow, too, comely and not too narrow,
her hips of good proportion, her butt nicely
rounded. too bad about the rest of her.
the second time she stopped me to pitch her
petition, she showed no sign of remembering
the first time. i didn’t choose to remind her,
but i gave her five dollars for whatever
it was she needed. she asked me my name.
i told her we’re all the same. and we are,
but we are not. she insisted on shaking
my hand. i didn’t tell her the most
important thing she could do would be to
die. i shook her hand, then washed my
hands as soon as i could.
we woke up, wearing clothes and carrying weapons
we woke up, our women carrying babies on their hips
as we wandered the dry, sun-drenched plains
we woke up to find ourselves living in crowded cities
drinking beer in the cool, dark shops
grinding grain and gossiping by the city walls
watching the seasons and marking the stars
calculating when to plant the corn
painting ourselves, hacking the gemstones, melting the ores
prostrating ourselves before ten thousand gods
slicing the hearts from endless rows
of sacrificial victims captured by the soldiers
arrayed in endless rows of the armies
we found ourselves marching in when we woke up
out of our dreaming and into this nightmare
(Published in Synchronized Chaos, September, 2013; copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
the latest true messiah has arrived in town
he’s wearing sunglasses
he’s here to dedicate the new power plant
he has a winning smile
he wears a fine blue shirt and points this way and that
he says he’d love to stay a while longer and talk some more with us if only he could
but he has so very many things to do
his bodyguards make a way for him through the pressing crowd
we give way and he is gone
we don’t know when he may return but we are sure he will
we are sure he knows we want him to
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
he holds me down
he says, wider
he says, deeper
he says, you shall have no other before me
he says, you shall learn to love me for this
he fills me up, it hurts every time
he waits in the morning for me
he stands in the doorway
i turn my face away
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
trim my fingernails
wash my dirty clothes
press my wrinkled shirt
shine my dusty shoes
buy some groceries
clean my living room
burn my memories
mend my broken heart
hug my only child
close my tired eyes
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
dear lord,
if i take this cup of bitter dregs you’ve given me to drink
and dash it against your rock,
will sweet, cool water flow, washing away the knifing shards?
will there be enough to quench my thirst and cleanse myself?
or will i simply find myself still stuck in your immense desert,
with only my cupped, supplicating hands, and no water—
merely clods of damp soil i’ve clawed from deep beneath
the foot of your burning bush?
then you can watch me place your dirt in my mouth,
and suck until it’s dry.
lord, you are so easily amused.
(Published in gutter eloquence magazine, Issue #20, March 2012; copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
i thought it was because they were poor that they didn’t have
sliding glass doors in vietnam during the war
my father walked right into ours after he came back
knocked his glasses off
left a smudge
he said he wasn’t used to sliding glass doors
the dog had run into the door, too
once, in a hurry, before my father came back
left a dog-nose smudge lower down
my mother kept everything very clean
all smudges were soon gone
that door was clean to nonexistence
clean enough to eat off, in a weightless world
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
there is something inside myself
soft and sweet as fresh marshmallow
but somewhat more alive—
there it is
over in the corner
scuttering away by the baseboards
not in its persistence to be underestimated
it can in its reshaping shape itself from animal to plant
like a weed grown out of the spot where a cockroach was crushed underfoot
such a mess—there!
wth this strap-cutter and its single-edged blade,
i can excise this thing
it will take only a few deft strokes to remove
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
someone has been in my back yard
from my kitchen window i can see where the razor wire
has been pulled from off the rickety fence
there is no protection
no way of staying safe
not even if i posted signs that read
there is nothing here but fear and empty husks
anyway
that would be a lie
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
where am i in a world that goes only round and round
where am i under night-time helicopters
and every next-door dog at bark
where am i under hand claps just outside the bathroom window
and sounds of pistol fire from two-three blocks away
another helicopter flies over
september’s nights are too warm
spiders climb the walls
neighbor-boys play basketball and laugh is where they are
laughing and playing in a world that goes only round and round
(Published in High Street: Lawyers, Guns & Money in a Stoner’s New Mexico (2012, Outpost 19); copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
i turn on the television while i roll my first joint.
markets are rising and falling.
the japanese are calling for calm.
the spa i summered in seasons ago has been destroyed by intelligent bombs.
the chinese are demanding revenge.
the vengeful are demanding chinese.
there’s cold carry-out in the refrigerator, on the bottom shelf.
i roll my second joint.
it’s another working day. anything could happen.
(Published in High Street: Lawyers, Guns & Money in a Stoner’s New Mexico (2012, Outpost 19); copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
Trailer Park Quarterly Issue Four has been published. It contains one of my poems (“Supermarket”) and can be found at:
http://www.sundresspublications.com/tpq/TPQ4.pdf
Fourteen degrees Fahrenheit at daybreak.
The stairwell smells of dirty
diapers and stale cigarette smoke.
A man dressed several levels
below stylish picks through
the garbage bin behind a business.
Three blocks away at three
o’clock this morning, a man
was shot to death on the street.
The subjective impression
of his last moments are as
all of our such moments are,
forever lost. His blood froze
in spots on the concrete sidewalk.
The man at the garbage bin
pulls out a jacket discarded
there, says to no one walking by,
“Let the dead bury their dead.”
The clouds relax,
the snow shakes loose.
Icy dandruff coats
the shoulders of the roads.
The sky is gray,
the lake is green and still.
Gulls threaten each other for scraps.
A man stands on the breakwater,
shouts at the lake, “Jah! Allah!
Motherfucker Santa!”
A commercial truck
backs up on the street,
its beeper beeping warning beeps.
The man on the breakwater
throws his head back,
dances to the rhythm,
two-four time.
The joggers and joggettes of Evanston
gather in packs on grizzly November days
and run south into Oniontown.
At their head is the crier who clangs
his bell and calls, “Stand aside! Stand aside!”
The joggers and joggettes are young
and slender and beautiful, their faces
unlined, brows unfurrowed, their clothing
new and unfrayed, well-styled and of
perfect fit. Their conversation is of matters
pertinent. You may overhear snatches
of it as they trot past. The bell clangs.
The joggers and joggettes trot along
the sidewalks. They will nudge you
in the most polite manner possible
if you have not paid attention to the cries
of the crier and the clangings of the bell.
When you are young
and you move to a new place,
you know you are
going there to live.
Everything there is fresh
and very important.
When you are older, past
the mid-point of your life,
and you move to a new place,
you know you are going there
to die, and you know
it doesn’t matter,
you are now free.
Mansions for sale
up Evanston way
Along Edgemere Court
private drive
three-point-five million a pop
Thirty-five thousand a year
to heat and cool
Servants’ quarters
around back
Never been any slaves up here
Squirrels in West Rogers Park
are fat. Skin ’em and gut ’em
and stuff ’em with cloves of sauteed
garlic. Sprinkle with black
pepper. Wrap ’em in foil.
Set ’em to baking in the coals.
They come out all juicy, the meat
melting off the bones. The skulls
can be dipped in clarified
butter and eaten whole.
Nine out of ten doctors
will tell you that the crazy guy
who gathers sopping newspapers off
the sidewalk in the rain while talking
to no one you can see about all
the reading he now has to do
is a crazy guy.
He stops talking when people
draw near, he’s not that crazy.
He knows where the danger lies.
Ten out of ten doctors
will tell you what they would have
done for or to or about
the crazy guy. Ten out of ten
of them will be wrong
and so will you.
Hell in a very small place
is directly beneath my feet.
Las Hermanas de Las Dolorosas
live if you want to call it living
in the apartment below my soles.
Their bickering ends only
when one or both of them
lose or loses consciousness.
O to sleep
and not to scream.
They are up and at each other
at nine o’clock
ten o’clock
one forty-four
and five-thirty the following
morning. Sometimes I expect
to hear gunshots and hope
they don’t accidentally aim
at their ceiling. More likely
I think their impasse could
resolve with crashings of furniture
and smashings of glass and
wailings followed by
silence,
sirens,
and the news trucks showing
up outside on the street.
Most likely, though, it will
go on and on, the muffled
whine, the occasional shout,
no end in sight, two people
locked together forever
in their love and hate.
A woman sat in a canvas folding
chair by the lake. The day
was still and water calm. Mist
in the sky blurred the horizon.
She held her wallet in her lap. She
opened it and pulled out a folded
sheet of paper, unfolded it,
looked at it, a copy of her birth
certificate. She folded it, returned
it to her wallet, fingered her
drivers license there, closed her
wallet and looked out over the lake.
A few minutes later she opened her
wallet again, pulled her drivers
license out, looked at it, put it
back in her wallet, pulled her
birth certificate out again,
unfolded it and looked at it again.
She lightly ran her fingertips over
the names of her father and her mother,
folded the certificate, returned it to
her wallet and looked at the lake.
Yesterday she ran away from her
husband, literally, running down
the sidewalk in a light drizzle
on a street a few blocks from
the apartment where her father
died when she was seventeen. Two
pedestrians turned and watched as
she ran by. Further up the street,
her husband stood on the sidewalk
and he watched her go.
The downstairs neighbors are having
a bad day. Last night they had
a bad night. Yesterday, at least
during those parts of the day
when I was at home, they were
having a bad day. The night before
last, etc.
I try not to listen. (I want
to listen!) I try not to press
my ear against the floor and I
am almost always successful.
It hardly matters. This old
building is built like a honeycomb,
sound traveling well up and down
the cells. (They’re shouting now
below me—I want to listen!)
Even without pressing my ear
against the hardwood floor,
I can hear “Fuck!” and “I
told you!” and “Don’t” and
“Help me, you never help me,
I have to do all the fucking”
and then it trails off and
then the dogs bark. Yes, they
have dogs, two of them. They
bark. Sometimes they even howl.
“Fuck” is the word easiest
to hear in this honeycomb. It’s
like the punch of a fist.
Memo in the inbox at
opening time today. From
Divisional Headquarters, Department
of Intimate Affairs: There will
no longer be any
fucking between the husband
and the wife. Forms have been
submitted, a closed-door
hearing has been held (to preserve
the privacy of all involved),
and the decision has been
reached. What little has been
leaked and may be said with
any degree of certainty is
inconsistent and controversial.
The wife waved her arm and said,
“Look at him—those wrinkles,
those teeth—and he smells of
cheese.” The husband clutched
his hat and said, “It’s true that
I am flatulent and sniffle
and often scratch myself—
frankly, I wouldn’t want to
be mounted by such a one as me,
either.” The husband had a way
with words. The gavel sounded
and the matter was considered
settled. Coffee-flavored kisses
were still to be exchanged
on an ad hoc basis.