Quip

My dog smells like Chinese food.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In The Darkness of The Theatre Many False Things Who Bloom And Forage

Scrub pines
And Ajax,
Ruby Red
Grapefruit
And
Thumbtacks-
A lost
Shopping list.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The 4th of July

There’s my girl
With somebody else’s guy
In her witch’s costume
On the 4th of July.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Saint Paul.

Maybe I will meet a fine girl
At the funeral this
Evening,

So I can have sex
One more time so
Close to death.

If not,
I will pick one up
Next week in Minneapolis,

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Untravable Hills

I have the skills
To pay the
Bills—
I can travel across
The untravable
Hills—
Up town,
Down town
No matter what’s
Real—
I’ll dance with the
Goldfish atop the
Windowsill-

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Beds of Concrete

Her eyes the
Deep deep aqueducts
The sunlight skated on
Like water spiders
And beautiful couples
Never revealing
The murdered love
Down so very deep

The skeletons peeling
Inside
The rusting landrover
Flipped over against
The bed of concrete

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Too Far Away To See

I set out on my horse- it was the
Best thing I could do-
We galloped to the sea- it was the only
Thing I could do,
And we drowned beneath the windmills
For her-
My horse and I, as my father watched,
But the stars were too far away to see.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Carelessly Precious God

Over and under
Rivers
Indian givers are
Precious liars;
And I always wondered
Where you
Disappeared to after
School,
Because it was as if
The day was ending
And my bullies
Existed in a void
While I awaited
Always for the return
Of the education of
A carelessly
Precious god.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Ages of The Sea

If I passed away in
The ages of the sea,
Would you come
To remember me in
The trailer parks of
Your eyes-
As if I'd been sleeping,
Kissed by the rattlesnakes
Who've crawled on their
Bellies
Across
The mowed yards of
The retirement homes-
Because even if I do
Not exit now,
I am coming home to
Where once you lived.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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If You'd Been My Sister

Would that you’d been born my sister,
Then you would already be happily married,
Free of the holocaust
When your mother left to be born again;
And you’d already be happily married:
Maybe you’d be considering me,
But you never would;
And I would be sitting here all alone,
As if I had never known you, if you’d been my sister.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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