DOUG ANDERSON (BINGE) ~

 

Binge

War comes to visit me once a day.

I can't get rid of him.

He's grown old and hates himself.

I stopped a quarter-century ago,

but he still drinks — sits in airport bars

and watches the cocky uniforms

line up at the departure gates.

Desert camouflage this time, tan boots.

He orders another double and snickers,

little eyes set close together

in too large a head, like a grizzly's,

opaque and dead. Flies swarm

around his gore-smeared muzzle.

He stinks of corpse. I let him sleep in the garage.

You see, there's no way to make him leave.

Go to war just once, he's always with you.

At breakfast he feels like he's got

an ice pick in his head, swears off the stuff.

Never again, he says, I've found God.

By five he's back in the blood glow of the bar,

bumming drinks and telling lies.

He's got an eye for boys and girls

with wallets full of combat pay.

He'll Mickey Finn them,

roll them for their souls and go off giggling.

I see Senator Goldmouth weaving

down the bar to slap him on the back:

Let freedom ring! says he,

teeth twinkling from the neon at the bar.

________________

Doug Anderson

from What Saves Us

edited by Martin Espada

Northwestern University Press

2019 

DOUG ANDERSON ~

______________________________________ 

What is it about Doug Anderson?

I used to read a new literary journal

every day, for years — who am I

kidding — for decades! and

one day I sold them all, because someone

wanted to do what I had done all

those many years reading, and staying

in-tune with who was writing —

naturally, I kept my favorites

like Coyote's Journal, Caterpillar and Origin

and now when I pick up a journal

to see what is happening out there

I often find Doug Anderson's poems —

and what is going on: Doug

Anderson's poems are most often

the very best poem(s) in there.

Journal after journal.

What do I mean?

Go downstairs and have a look.

[ BA ]

The Dark

A black dog shows up in my yard,

needle teeth under-bite and milky eyes.  Wags once

and rolls over on his side,

smells like he's pissed himself. He's come a long way,

stowed in steerage with the poor of spirit (blessed

are they) but I don't want this dog, don't want his snoring,

whining in his sleep, his leg twitching. I close the door,

put on some Howlin' Wolf and get ready for bed.

But I can't sleep knowing he's out there in the cold

so I pull what's left of last week's chicken off the bone,

warm some milk. Open the door and let him in.

He sniffs and rolls his cataracted eyes around the walls,

buries his face in the bowl and slurps.

Okay, I know you're here for a while, just don't make a mess.

He cocks his head at me. What does he see, my silhouette

through milk-glass?  A moon in clouds?  I go to bed.

And still I can't sleep knowing he's down there all by himself

in a strange house. Down stairs again I lift his stinking hulk

into my arms, carry him upstairs and put him in my bed.

He's warm against my leg, his breathing slow.

At three A.M. I'm wide awake. I reach down and scratch his battered head.

Toward dawn I press my ear against him and listen to his heart.

Inside, a spring rising through rock.

There's a shifting deep down in the strata.

A groan, an angel being born from a chrysalis,

the morning sun at the bottom of the well.

____________________________

Doug Anderson

from the Asheville Poetry Review

Issue 29 (2019-2020)

A wise, elder poet once wrote to me to say,

"Beautiful poem, Bob, I would have been proud

to have written that poem." He taught me something.

That's how I think of Doug's poem.