THE NIGHT WE MET by Alan Britt

Do you remember?

The night we met?

I do. You shuffling Sam the Sham
and I the British Invasion
beneath a thatched roof
known as Lake Worth rock-out
that survived the year
of my Mod collar
splashed with Royal Lyme.

Black curls and jet-blue eyes
exhaling a pheromone
designed to drag an otherwise crippled boy
to his knees feeling like the feathered lungs
of a Louisiana crawfish inside a jukebox,
ah, inside Lake Worth summer mist
engulfing our silver ’57 Chevy
with a four-barrel
chewing the green breasts
of a tropical storm.

I remember. I remember.

Do you?

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WHAT WOULD RUMI DO? by Alan Britt

Friend, I wish you wouldn’t do that.

Friend, and I speak from experience,
you need to warn me
before arriving at my doorstep.

Perhaps it’s better this way,
no festering neglects,
those dreaded sick roses.

And, perhaps, finally I’ll ride
that beautiful black and white pinto
I’ve been dreaming about
these past six months.

Perhaps I’ll even squeeze
all eight silk legs, friend, through the neck
of your favorite perfume bottle
then squirt my defensive ink
from a purple felt-tip pen.

Yeah, sure,
and perhaps someday Jesus,
mistaken for a homeless man gripping a blue snow cone,
will share his holy melancholy
with the thirsty masses.

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THE EGO by Alan Britt

(The ego simply disappears the moment you touch him.)
–Kabir

Imagine diving
into daily existence
without intent
of ever finding something solid,
something rusted, perhaps,
but otherwise resembling an anchor
say, from the Wydah or the Santa Maria?

My money’s on the anchor
though I’m a Socialist
defending one of the few sanctuaries we’ve got left.

And I’m not talking religion,
opiate to the masses,
although the ego must be stroked constantly,
even during Midnight Mass.

The ego must be misunderstood like any good myth.

So, how do you caress the ego
without destroying it?

If Kabir had this all figured out
600 years ago,
how come we’re still
dealing with this problem?

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