Poetry: 2 Poems by Austin Beaton
Coming of Age
Ghosts of violin scratches
made by burnt witches being
driven over their grandsons
earning raising wages
isn’t silent. Despite church
hymns; it doesn’t all work out
though our atoms
end up somewhere; when
Grandma’s pistol naps
in the dark of a cabinet
I kiss the newest hound
near the dead buried below
still echoing backyard
sobs. Pray to the days
of forgetting feeling mortal
like kid legs & nameless calves
not muscled, dangling
above what’s decided for us.
Once the self judges bicep small
then stomach fat inflates.
If I snap at your pronouncing
supposebly, you hide your
charisma. I’ve hugged you.
I’ve hurt you. Jesus how
teleportation ruined flying’s fun.
What I want from the past
is a letter & a song but
the moon throws only
its cables of silver
and God is a place
that can offer a small
handshake of quiet
at this time.
Barrel-circumferenced parking lot tornado
of pine needles, napkin, bottle cap microcosms
my obsession to control, mind chisel
violet clouds into right now’s snow falling
through iris unforecasted, reverse the sad
saddening by enlarging miniatures, dwarfing
universes smaller, what’s expected: weirder.
Here goes. Reach back, cast ghost fishing pole
to trusting: that flat space white of imaginary /
yet-inflated polyethylene swimming pool /
giant Catholic wafer cracker Eucharist. Re-lay
rubber t-rex to sleep below Mom marigolds,
petunias, nostalgia. Learn to let the eventually
be eventual. Permit without permitting:
little league commissioner to love the country
he believed & died in, rusty train track vestigial,
meth face somewhere. Nothing ever unhappens.