Poultry by Eric Beeny

Poultry
by Eric Beeny

Excerpts from Dead End on Progressive Ave.

8)

The religious
believe
in more
signs

than perforated
poles
know
to post,

so just in case
I care
I keep
my eyes

peeled for a praying
mantis
hula-hooping
halos

the size of a hole
in
the
ozone.

++++++++++++++++++++

14)

With a crayon I scribble
a moustache
on every breathing
hologram like
a ghost writer’s
gag order.

“I’m willing to trade
amnesias,”
I whisper
into his ear.

“No, we’ll clone
our lobotomies,”
he says,
pulling out a pair
of stethoscopic
headphones.

The ghost
writer
puts his stethoscope
against my chest
but can’t crack
the code
of my heart’s safe
combination.

“Don’t worry,”
I say.
“It’s empty.”

++++++++++++++++++++

16)

It’s really not that important
where Progressive Ave. is.

The legend goes:

Fortune tellers
used to read my palm
prints pressed
into its sediment.

Then they just sat there
mumbling
things to each other,
all like:

“We can talk
about the past later—
right now,
let’s think about
the future.”

But they were already
too late.

I wasn’t even
born yet.

Author bio:

Eric Beeny’s poems and stories have appeared in The 2nd Hand, Abjective, Corduroy Mtn., elimae, Dogmatika, Dogzplot, HazMat Review, Main Street Rag, Quercus Review, Word Riot, and others. He’s a contributing editor for Gold Wake Press. His blog is Dead End on Progressive Ave. at Eric Beeny.