John Lennon's Clone On The 55 Bus

I thought it was criminal that
passenger buses didn't provide
remotes to change channels in fellow
travelers brains or, at least, mute
certain conversations before they spread
like a fatal contagious disease as this one was.
I thought John's death had been untimely
but he was spared a viewing of his clones'
body swathed in funeral blacks, a mouth
full of broken, rotting teeth and dull,
insipid eyes floating in an emulsion
of putrid dreams contained behind
black lensed, gold rimmed granny glasses.
Music died on the way to those chapped
lips but words flowed on, endlessly stuck
in the cracks between warped grooves;
a tape of a day in a meaningless life
playing backward and forward at two
different speeds all the way to Albany
and beyond.

Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Share on Reddit
Pin It

About Alan Catlin

In a previous life, Alan Catlin, was an itinerant bartender, a profession he likens to being a soldier of fortune only much more boring. Usually.The best part of the work was an almost unlimited source of free material for writing projects and his placement in a high risk pool that finally got his life more agent off his back once he turned thirty. His work was twice voted among the Most Neglected Books of the year by legendary small press editor Marvin Malone of The Wormwood Review. He is currently the best kept secret in Schenectady N.Y, where he lives, through a series of coincidences, that defy explanation. His most recent full length book is American Odyssey from Future Cycle Press
There are no comments yet...

Poem of the Week

little bar on the river where bosnian refugees hang out

Story of the Week

The Mall Can Be Murder