Three Poems by Robert Beveridge

Brownian

We move in suspended
circles, streets, highways,
the occasional alley. Always
toward the center, if only
to be repelled again
when the forces get too great.
Carom off walls, floors,
others like us, whose roots
were somehow laid in air
rather than soil. We hold
hands, spin, laugh away
any semblance of control
and ride where the motions
of others take us. Once more
unto the breach, dear friend,
another round of pack, move, unpack
and wonder if this time
we find peat, loam, perfect topsoil.

Old Clovenfoot, Again

Has anyone asked you
about the revolution,
the time you met Medusa,
your family recipe
for enchilada sauce?
Did you have a couple
of belts before you bundled
yourself into the driver’s
seat for a hero’s journey
to Walgreens for more
pineapple juice and a bag
of pizza rolls? Did you
think the Big Game was
about to air even though
it was three in the morning?
Did Blixa Bargeld stop by
for a Rhinebock at your
rickety kitchen table? (And
did he bring Warren Ellis?)
Has the mine called you back
from layoff yet? Have your
neighbors left the cult, removed
the red flag from their porch?
Is there anything left to hang onto?
Is there anything left to hang onto?
Is there anything left to hang onto?

Page of Pentacles

It's Saturday, it's 1AM, the last live race was over hours ago. The Hong Kong simulcast begins in six minutes. Tim and Willie sip their coffee, black, one eye on the monitors, another beautiful evening with the lord's greatest creations. A youngster, maybe twenty-one, bellies up to the self-bet terminal. His racing form so covered with multicolored ink they can barely see the names of the horses. He feeds a twenty into the machine, then another, chooses the button for Sha Tin, then the one for Race One. He hesitates, then looks down at his racing form again. They've seen this before. They know this disease all too well. Tim takes another sip of his coffee. Willie puts a hand on the table, leans. Tim puts a hand on his arm. "You don't wanna do that, my friend." Willie looks over at Tim. "The boy's havin' an existential crisis. It's our duty to help him out." "It's our duty to help him out of the result, not to steer him into the iceberg." Tim cocks an eyebrow. "Do you think we'd be here right now if I'd talked you off Karma Blue in the seventh race at Beulah the day we met? Of course not. You'd be blaming me to this day." Willie think about it, nods. "You got a point there." He relaxes, looks over at the kid, who stabs the Win button, then a number he doesn't quite catch. The machine spits out a voucher for his balance. He turns away from the machine, grabs his racing form and his drink, starts to walk away. Tim calls out, "who you got in the first?" The boy looks over, startled, sees the only other two guys in sight, motions to himself with his eyebrows raised. Willie nods with a grin. The boy smiles, walks over, sits down at one of the table's spare chairs. Tim pulls out his flask, offers. The kid nods, joins in the conversation.



Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it's been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in Door Is a Jar, Modern Haiku, and The Atlanta Review, among others.