by Craig Kirchner

IMAX


Guarding against the of-late 
tendency to forget completely,
I sketched the past to scale
on blue-checked graph paper,

putting into an overview perspective
the best and worst iconic moments,
all tops of heads, shoulders and cleavage,
accurate miniature snapshots,

not influenced by expression or words,
no innuendo or facial tics,
just impartial history detailed from above,
creating a rolodex dimension
 
for the bijou reality of the back 
of the mind, index-tabbed by category,
providing easy reference for the 
rem-sleep dreamer who provides the 3D quality,

plugs back in the bedroom brown eyes,
do-me cheek bones, tongue-licked lips,
that ‘talk dirty to me’ voice
that sucks inhibition from the room

in the third of our existences,
the sepia-toned stream of consciousness,
the cognac-noir matinees
where we’re always our nastiest,

most run-on, most relaxed.






Impediment


Frost-bitten wall
of crackled, crystallized caramel -
immense, fluorescent,
breathing mass of stoppage,
deliberately picked at, bitten,
mazed cleavage to a Pacific calm.

Perched on the peak of a continent,
head raised to orange vaudeville clouds,
hesitating the leap east,
I’m reminded of Hegel -
I grasp with green swollen fingers
at a crack of ego –
perhaps a grappling hook
and a boost from the moon,
perhaps just patience.







Intervention


Tolerance, 
in his typical elitist tone
was elucidating on the plight 
of migrant children 
when Integrity interrupted 
with a rare and curious  
announcement.

“Humility would like to have a word”

The stillness and silence 
were immediately being compared 
to similar ominous moments in the past –
like when Self-Control spoke 
after hearing of Bobby Kennedy’s death.
The last time Humility 
had asked to contribute was just after rehab.

A two-story tall burgundy curtain
opened just slightly, 
Hum walked on stage 
in tuxedo and suede loafers,
opened a folding chair, 
produced a tall gin and tonic
and began –

“All traits and characteristics 
need to get a drink and take a seat. 
We are going to be here awhile.”  
 

 


    
Interview in a Bar


To extend life 
is to multiply death,

fingering the cross 
on the ring on his little finger,
he postured his Guinness 
in front of his lips, 
but did not sip.

Jonathan, you don’t sleep do you?
It goes unnoticed though,
like your contempt for food 
and conversation.

You sit here sober,
but see a different room,
only you hear the rats,
their disease infecting shadows, 
scattering scared through the walls.

In your nips of dream
you’re catatonic in silent coma,
skin grey like the fog,
serpents eat monkeys as
you walk uneven stairs to 
a granite landing, 
the moon is the color of lava,
the sun in your belly
burns your eyes, reddens the night,
jeopardizes the stars.







Old Friend


Close, not always in proximity,
priorities or ideology,
more like thumb and forefinger,
always coming together,
no matter the spread.

Couldn’t be best man,
wasn’t Greek,
but made the second toast, 
on request.

Forty years later, 
second wedding,
Would you make a toast?

Sure, wish I could remember the first -
pulls the cocktail napkin of scribble, 
out of his wallet.

Craig Kirchner has written poetry all his life as work allowed, is now retired and thinks of poetry as hobo art. He was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize in the early 2000’s, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review.