Poetry from Alan Catlin


		More than 100 people queue at a 
gas station for a chance to see,
sniff, a blooming corpse flower.
So says Harper’s Weekly News 
roundup. Literally smells like death. 
A San Francisco treat. Following
The corpse on social media. Over 
1,200 scenters in all. Not a scene
From a David Lynch movie. A Field
of Dreams. Cultivate it and they will 


The tyranny of the corpse. George
Romero or Claire Thomas. The corpse
as content. As a consumer product.
The consuming corpse. All consuming
corpse. The Exquisite Corpse. The Peace
Corpse. Dead Kennedys.


“Who was shot, who was imprisoned, 
who escaped” Colm Toibin said. Now
introducing Natalie Ginzburg. Yesterday,
Today, and Tomorrow. Sophia Loren movie
or current events. Book. Fascists in Italy.
Germany. Here a fascist, there a fascist,
everywhere a fascist. Ezra Pound on
the radio or in St. Elizabeth’s. Voices in
the Wilderness or Voices in the Evening.


Hunker down for medium night.
The message is still the. Massage.
Psychic readings 50 bucks. A session.
Rise the Dark or Never Far Away.
20 dollars. 20 minutes of healing
Crystals. For all Those Who Wish
Me Dead. On Mediumship Way and
Spiritualist Street. Not at Terror Street
And Agony Way. Nearby. Ask for Raven
Star. Mystic Witch. Not in Connecticut.
Florida. Naturally.


Paying last respects. For the deceased.
During pandemic. Death Zoom casts.
Supply your own sound track.
Patsy Cline. “Sweet Dreams.” “Leavin’
On Your Mind.” “Back in Baby’s Arms.”
“Don’t tell anyone, because if we tell
People, then it will become true.”
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Notes on
Grief. Patsy Cline. “I Fall to Pieces.”

One thought on “Poetry from Alan Catlin

Comments are closed.