Obits Orbit
He died where my dad died,
Huntington Beach, CA—
sorry, not so sunny;
some would say the funny thing is,
and not think about how it’s not.
When I woke up and found out
Gerald Locklin had passed,
I was numb to emotion.
He was a mentor
at a crucial stage of my poetry.
When I woke up years ago,
I didn’t find out my dad
had passed until I went to visit
him again at the hospice,
and he wasn’t there in his room;
the hospice had forgotten
to call me.
I was numb to emotion then too.
My dad wasn’t there at a crucial
stage of my growing up.
But eventually, he was around
enough.
Eventually, somehow,
another kind of poetic justice
finds a way in as father figure,
as gravity orbits with time
and space.
____________
Illumination of Getting Older
I bend down to plug the lamp cord
into the electrical socket
and make a sound
somewhat like a sexual moan,
but really it’s just me getting older,
reaching over to turn on the light—
then the illumination
reflects
my shadow along the walls.
____________
COVID Church Choir
Out of thin air
they sing
weekends/weeknights
like Santa Ana angels
spreading infectious psalms
at concert volume
through our third story
apartment window
that faces the back of
the church with
the two Chow Chows
that bark for hours
day and night
day and night
at cars and kids
and the unfortunate
homeless, the choir’s
holy hymns sounding
like the virtuous
greeting to the song
You Can’t Always Get
What You Want
by the Rolling Stones,
and I must agree with
the sentiment because
what I want right now
is their lord to mask
their singing
and the non-stop dogs,
the car alarms on repeat,
the fireworks,
the nextdoor neighbors
fucking against
our shared wall,
oh god yes,
oh please,
stop
it.
_____
BRIAN HARMAN is a poet living in Southern California. His work has appeared in Misfit Magazine, Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, and elsewhere. He is the author of Suddenly, All Hell Broke Loose!!! (Picture Show Press). He loves craft beer, music playlists, and writing poetry into the night.
Rusty Truck 