The Poetry of Mark Gibbons

You tell me.

Can it be a conversation

that starts in the dark

on the porch steps

some moonless new moon

summer night loaded

with oh so many stars

that you have to walk out

in the middle of the yard

to really take it all in

and decide to lie down

on the ground to

catch the best view

of the whole shittin’ show:

the Dippers (Big and Little)

Polaris and Cassiopeia,

Orion’s Belt, Venus and Mars,

the Dog Star, that gauzy

mind-boggling, jaw-dropping

Milky Way, plus the elliptical

flights of occasional satellites

or red-pulsing planes periodically

blown away by some showering

shooting star? You know

I don’t know much,

but this is enough

to convince me all is perfect

in its place like you here

with me silently flat on

our backs and stoned again

on the cool evening air

of stardust and sky,

that breath we share.

*

Mark Gibbons

The literate man,

the educated analyst,

had it completely right,

*

but he couldn’t relate

it to the crowd gathered

around their palms

*

scoffing at the idea

of reading way too many

finger-scrolls of high-

*

dollar words “they were

supposed to know!” like

“ideologues and sycophants,”

*

smart-assed disses on all

the president’s men (and molls).

He didn’t have the balls

*

to say it straight and call

them “blow-hards and

brown-nosers,” yes-men,

*

the tin-horn-greasy fucks

clamoring to kiss Trump’s ass

and feather their own beds.

*

The vines, those climbers,

cling-on-parasites willing to

step on the heads of the elderly

*

dead and let the poor, sick,

and forgotten copper-tones rot

on sidewalks or in their beds

*

till they can be deported

or entombed—processed.

Remember Soylent Green?

*

The Final Solution?

It’s the price people pay

for their own stupidity, sloth

*

and selfishness, electing

an amoral narcissist to direct

a caravan of fools.

*

—another one for John Prine

Mark Gibbons

was a wizard with a knife

if he couldn’t find

a can opener

or a P38

*

he could cut into

the metal shelf life

of a wide variety

the happy meals

*

that defined my youth

Dinty Moore or

Spaghetti O’s

Van Camps’ pork-n-beans

*

the Jolly Green Giant

hands on hips elbowed in

on Hunt’s and Del Monte

but Campbell’s held claim

*

to the soup game opened

wide for chunky Jiff or

smooth Skippy paired

to Welch’s grape as

*

French’s dogged Heinz

Wonder buns to go

with Lays or Fritos

cracking open a Pillsbury

*

dough-boy to giggle

for flaky crescent rolls

and sop-up exotic Ragu

save room for Duncan Hines

*

Chef Boyardee didn’t need

fresh food or a stove

he helped us survive

cold wars and winter

*

—for Kurt & Richard

*

Mark Gibbons

I promise this will only go fourteen

and you’ll probably agree that fifteen

would be too much besides breaking

the rules which are the point in making

 

one of these goddamn love sonnets—

hitting the ballpark iambic mark. Let’s

not overlook the insistence on rhyme:

perfect, off, slant or some kind of line

 

that appeals to the ear, breath, and most

importantly somehow captures a post-

modern equivalence of the human dream

of holding love up to the highest esteem

 

and giving it voice and agony and sweat,

lord it over all the other bullshit!

 

Mark Gibbons

 

the grosbeak clings to the top

of the wire fence, hops to the ground,

pecks around the dried leaves

and puff balls, flutters back to the fence,

cocks her head and looks at me

 

looking at her, then turns her back,

drops down again and springs

onto a lilac shoot where she bobs,

tilts bill and beady eye, fixes sky, before

she flies to the galvanized gatepost.

 

she’s not as colorful as the male

strewn between the house and hedge

yesterday, nothing left but feathers and feet,

which made me think of the headless cat

we found last year in the back yard

 

right where those puff balls are at,

and the mountain lion that thundered

across our porch, almost catching

our smelly cat, who keeps littering the lawn

with squirrel tails and hollow bones.

 

my own weak and carnivorous

constitution has given me the opportunity

to sit down today, stop, look around

and listen — witness the world

outside my window — victim of a bad egg,

 

no doubt a good egg, a lucky egg,

a rotten lottery ticket claimed

to put me here, right now, in this sweet

flitting moment — a breathtaking

plunge that opens my eyes.

 

Mark Gibbons

Listen Hear

I mean really listen here

Try to pay attention

As if you were blind

Like your life depended on it

It’s difficult to really hear someone

Speaking to you

Let alone two or more

Plus everything around you

Pulsing in and out

As the voice in your head

Keeps chiming on about

The here beyond and behind

Under the constant tinnitus

Ringing its distraction

And the rhythm of two

Battery clocks ticking

In sync to your heartbeat

Along with the intermittent

Drip in the kitchen sink

The muffled purr-rumble

Of cars outside passing by

Some near some far

A forced air furnace

Waging its winter war

Keeping you cozy for

Noting thinking being a spy

Locked onto the ping pong

Nuances in the immediate flood

No working words

Rule the body presence

Like background shading

They are another aspect

Of a landscape painting

We mostly hear

With our eyes hands listening

For the heart keenly attuned

To light to air

The warmth and fear

My nose inhaling

A mysterious melody

Mixed with blood and death

This what of if I listen for

The You in Us

That Now of When

 

Mark Gibbons

 

 

 

 

 

First of February

Fifty-five degrees

I walk downtown

Toward the river

& Charlie B’s

 

A gale blows in warm

Chinooks I remember

On the eastern front

Of the Rockies

Thirty years ago

 

Augusta wind in

Missoula Montana

Halts me again

Like a cartoon spinning

In place on ice

 

Legs & arms churning

But going nowhere

That strange encounter

With the hand of God

Digging the graveyard song

 

Reminding me of

My fragility

Every step a risk

Every scoop a breath

We all ride the wind

 

Mark Gibbons

 

The Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul

& Pacific had nothin’ and everything to lose

that summer in Missoula. Our job—the Catlin Street

crossing replacement—four men, water and tools:

spike malls and pullers, shovels and picks,

rail jacks, tie tongs and wrenches.

 

Shirtless under August sun, we dug and pried

at broken ties exposed below the rails, weathered

in creosote, sand and cinders. We scanned for tacks

to tell us the date a tie was spiked and tamped.

Like fingerprints or DNA, those tags were metal proof.

Drenched in sweat, we baptized the roadbed—

 

Track pranksters burned black as tunnels. Our hands

blistered and bled and cramped. Back on our feet,

bent at the knees, we begged for Christ or the lions

to be merciful if tongs didn’t bite. Our spines burned

till tail bones went numb. Half-done and lightheaded,

we broke for a drink. No one ever had to pee.

 

An old gandy dancer shuffled up in suspenders,

leaned on his cane. “You boys’re lucky!

When I was your age… didn’t have no goddamn machines!

That was back in 1929. Those days

you earned your pay! Snaked those ties out

full length! An’ guys standin’ in line to do it!”

 

Eyes down, we dug for Copenhagen cans

and wondered, “Was the old bastard blind?”

“You got the wrong railroad,” Billy said,

stuck a scoop under the Old Timer’s nose,

“they ain’t bought a new shovel since the day you quit!

Next year we’re goin’ back to steam!”

 

He squinted and glared, spit in the dirt,

stared us down one by one. We went back to cussin’

hardwood and steel, didn’t watch when he limped

away. I felt beaten and sore as this wounded

railroad, hoardin’ tie tacks cached in my pocket.

One, a 1929, would have made that old guy’s day.

 

Mark Gibbons

Fresh out of his bath,

steam rising from the wet-peaked

hair atop his shoulders,

the old man stared

between his legs, his bald head

bowed as he sat on the edge

of his bed. “You son-of-a-bitch,”

he said. “I’ve lived my whole

life for you, and now . . .

look at you! You’ve gone

and let me down.”

 

Mark Gibbons