Robert Beveridge writes

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW

The Haitians believe

that every rainbow

is the manifestation

in our earth

of heaven

so here, drunk, Judy

Garland on the radio

again, I wonder what

is beyond the river

of heaven manifest

in the night sky

 

 https://youtu.be/4wkSBZb2aoI

 Judy Garland singing "Over the Rainbow" during a broadcast of the "Command Performance" radio program.

Robert Beveridge writes

TUNA

It's trouble

to have the lights off

before ten.

The neighbors wonder.

The bathtub backs up

spits hairballs

into the sink

where there are no cats.

Robert Beveridge writes

SENZA RADICI

This is how it works. You order another Grand Marnier on the dime of that rich old guy who says he runs the studio where Alice Mutton recorded their latest album and when you fade back in it’s foggy, you’re outside, and two violinists stand over you, recite the Nicene Creed until you, too, think you believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church.

It’s when you get up and walk home you realize these guys are with you for good, and there are only so many reels your head can process before you need to sleep the sleep of the spray-tanned sailor. At the risk of being seen a walnut, you ask, in as polite a tone as you can muster, if your new friends might cease and desist, at least till cockcrow, but they just switch to a narcocorrido ballad, vocals in something that may resemble broken Spanish in some alternate universe. When Alice Mutton’s drummer pulls up, even if he’s wasted enough to see nickels on every dime, you dive in, beg him to floor it, destination Braşov, Paris, the final patch of Oblivion-surrounded earth at the end of the world, anywhere but here.

Robert Beveridge writes

IN PRAISE OF THE VICTORIAN NOVEL
for Laura Aquilino

You smiled today, touched

my hand in greeting. I could no longer see

the fires along the river at night

yet again they sprang forth

those talismans

against the flood that threatens

to overcome us.

What great beast is this? One more

sweaty night, no end to this heat

can't sleep so I think of you

wait for something, nothing

you'll know it when you find it.

Hadn't seen you for two days

after I read you my last poems.

Are you in bed with the verse

I opened to you? Do you wonder

if I write you another? I do.

Robert Beveridge writes

HOME IMPROVEMENT

The clink in the basement might be a leaky pipe or a loose piece of glass caught in a sporadic draft. The Derby favorite might look sore in the post parade because he needs to warm up a little more. Your bank might have sent that email because they do indeed care about the safety of your personal information. Perhaps the cult nailed the carcasses to your door for protection. He’s from the government, and he’s here to help you. The green on the cheese is just a rind. It’s got a 0% rating at Rotten Tomatoes because critics don’t understand art. The editor hasn’t responded because the work is still under consideration. Your favorite knife isn’t in the block because it’s still somewhere in the dishwasher.

Robert Beveridge writes

CHUCK 

You toss back

another bourbon

and laugh at me

for my Southern Comfort

and later

I rub your back

hold your hair

away from your face

you try to kiss me

in reply and I hand

you a glass of ginger ale

Robert Beveridge writes

APES OF GOD

 

upside down

the slow march

of beads

from ankles

to wrists

harder to breathe

with each hour

that passes

but you can still

smell the heavy

odor of liver

and caramelized

onion in the air

the occasional

spider bites

your heels,

your back,

and you swear

you hear each

whisper “what

tangled webs

we weave”

before they fall

to the floor

a glaive seems

an odd choice

but when he

comes back

into the room

he selects one

begins to work

once more

on his newest

creation