Two Poems by Alan Britt

ZIG ZAG

Oh, no,

                    .

 

 

 

 

                                                    .
                                                    .
             .  . . . . . . . . .

                                    .

                                 .
                              .
                          .
                       .
                   .
               .
                   .
                        .
                             .
                                 .
                                     .
                                        not another.
                                                       .
                                                   .
                                               .
                                            .
                                         .
                                      .
                                   .
                                .
                             . . . . poem.
                                        .
                                     .
                                  .
                               .
                            .
                         .
                      .
                    with all those…
                                        .
                                        .
                                            .
                                                .
                                                   .stupid
                                                               .
                                                                   .
                                                                       .
                                                                          dots?

I’ve been on rollercoasters

like any fool
                       from Syracuse, Paris or Pensacola.

 But I’m tired of all this buzzing

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   .   .
                                           .   .   .
                                           .   .   .
                                               . to the other
                                                                 .
                                                                     .
                                                                         .
                                                                     .
                                                                 .

                                   side

                              .
                         .
                                     .
                            .
                      .
               .

         . with the simple flip
                  .
                      . of a fly
    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

                              .

                                 .
                                    .swatter.

 Tired

        . of
                 .
                                    it
                          all,             .

                                     I

                          tell
                      .
                  .
              .
           .
       .
      . . . . .you. .
                    .
                .
            .
        .
    .
    just…
               .
                  .
                               .
                                     .plain. . . .
                                                  .
                                                .
                                              .
                                            . . . . . . .
                                                       .
                                                     .
                                                   .
                                                 .
                                                     .
                                                        tired! 

ST. PATRICK’S DAY

Let’s go.

              .
                 .
                     .
                        .slide forward
     in a polar.
                     .
                        .
                           bear.
                                       .
                                           .
                                               .suit
across the ice.
        Paws down.
                               .
                                  .
                                      .
                                 .
                             .
                         .
                     .
                 .
             .
          .
       .
     nobody expecting you, tonight.
Let’s go.

      Have
           you ever pondered
                                    Leonardo
engaging the Wright Brothers?

      What vintage cognac!

            Or Aristotle

                  covered
                             
                                   head
                                             to
                                                  toe
with the latest electronic gadgets?

                  Well…I guess

                                       blue
                                               .
                                                  .
                                                     .
                                                        .
                                                          .
                                                           sheep
                          might accidentally
                                 .
                                   .
                                     .
                                       .
                                       stumble
                                                across your
                                   blue
                                            forehead.

But that’s to be
               expected.

Remember

      those hours
              howling,
                     those hours
                               clawing
to get
           back
                       in?

     Those sleeting hours

                       .   .   .
                   .   .   .   .
               .   .   .   .   .
          .    .   .   .   .   .
     .    .    .   .   .   .   .
 .   .    .    .   .   .   .   .  
in an Atlanta Greyhound station
     unzipping.
                        .
                           .
                              .
                                 .
                                    .
                                     dreaming

 of an overripe Appaloosa

       nestled
              against
                       a
                           cloud?

    Those hours,

                          grey
                                      bearded,
          stained.

If we
          had
                  time,
                            we’d
                                  remember
             all
                  the
                        hours
                 spilled
                        from
                                   a pale
                                            green
                               bottle
                                               of
                                                      mel
                                                             a
                                                               n
                                                                 c
                                                                   h
                                                                     o
                                                                        l
                                                                          y
                 that’s
                           so
                         hard
                                     to
                                            swallow.

                 Flocks of
                      freshly-
                                  ground
                                           hours
                swarm the mythological maples
sheltering my neighborhood these past
                                                      50 years.

    That’s almost

                       enough
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                                .
                             time
                    don’t you think
              to plan
                                   the
                                              future?          

Alan Britt's interview with the Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem is up at (http://www.loc.gov/poetry/poetpoem.html#alan-britt) and will air on Pacifica Radio in January 2013. His interview with Minnesota Review is up at http://minnesotareview.wordpress.com/. He read poems at the World Trade Center/Tribute WTC Visitor Center in Manhattan/NYC, April 2012, at the We Are You Project (WeAreYouProject.Org) Wilmer Jennings Gallery, East Village/NYC, April 2012. His latest book is Alone with the Terrible Universe.  Alan currently teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University and lives in Reisterstown, Maryland with his wife, daughter, two Bouviers des Flandres, one Bichon Frise and two formally feral cats. He is the Book Review Editor for Ragazine: http://ragazine.cc/