Poems by Gerald Carlin

Here are the three poems I submitted to The Pacific Northwest Writers Association Literary Contest.  The winners were announced at a dinner this past Saturday.

Algebra

An expression

has no sum, a+b like

a married couple, an

expression until they’re

an equation: EX:

c = (a)(b)

Until mom (a) and dad (b)

get it on they’re just another 

collateral couple easy to

recognize.

Strangers visiting the prolific

(a)(b) = 14 equation at the bottom 

of the culdesac, might formulate

this driving by our rambler, its

dahlias & pinks our neighborhood’s 

oldest residence: EX:

interior + exterior = c + d

c (wife keeps house) + d (husband mows) = a + b

The variables are wrong.

We’re (-x + -x), the neighborhood

negative integers who won’t ever 

become an equation even if a sum, law (l)

is penciled out inside storied rooms 

off hallowed halls or the stork drops

a y on our front porch.

Despite an l = -x + -x

(a)(b) will forever equate

instantly of positive numbers, easy

like one skillet cooking, just add water.

So imbedded that tongues

stumble having to recall which

-x is which, so hard to tell us apart.

Standing On Line at the Ikea Cafe

waiting for the meatball plate with

lingonberry preserves on the side

my dermatologist calls to confirm 

a cluster of bumps on my right forearm, 

crimson like the preserves on my plate,

is a Kaposi’s Sarcoma lesion.

AIDS Cancer, we used to call it.

He can cut it off, if I want, at his 

First Hill high-rise office-suite where 

affluent women come for peels and

dermabrasion. I like this young, mod-ish 

skin doc, his GQ cool, the wide rep tie,

its fashionable double Windsor.

He bounces on the balls of his feet

dropping sterile things onto a paper-lined 

tray, instruments he will use to eliminate

proof  I’ve exceeded expectation. Stretched out

on a padded table I feel a jab-sting, he’s numbed  

purple spots that stayed put, didn’t decorate 

my jowls, claim a lung & kill me. Kill me

like my nameless fuck buddies their

glamourous bodies, testing, toying with 

risk, until tell-tale dots on limbs & torsos 

claimed the gentlemen of disco and bath houses.

I swallow a daily handful of penance.

A wicked cocktail, inhibitors & anti-virals 

keep me a relic of an era when tidal waves

landing in-slow-mo, receded taking,

taking. A sea change leaving agony & years 

waiting for a day to know why I am.

General Lee

Would he ever lean down

gently brush his lips over

mine while we wait for lattes?

He’s the Southern Gentleman I 

wanted, manners for charming

ladies, mothers--mother may I

come around to visit your son

with his bushy silver hair, like the

light from a full moon illuminating 

the yard on a clear autumn night?  

My heart hears collards, ham 

hocks, barrel-aged bourbon when 

he tells me Pat Conroy is real smart. 

I melt like fat back on a hot, seasoned 

black cast-iron skillet waiting for

his move. We’re men meant for 

each other I’ve decided, but we 

won’t be kissing if his wife 

has anything to say & I’ll wait for lattes

with my silver head man tomorrow

and tomorrow after that, never

a sufficiency to cool my jets