photo by marie c lecrivain
In 2018 Alan Britt served as judge for the The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. He was interviewed at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem and has published 17 books of poetry, his latest being Ode to Nothing (English/Hungarian: 2018) Crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge (English/Romanian): 2017; Violin Smoke (English/Hungarian: 2015). A graduate of the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars he now teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.
(After Bob Dylan)
Green iguana gill mantis sheen.
Veins & South American rivers
mapping Australian longnecks
rattling the conveyor.
Claw, unintentional, instinctual,
digs in; something's amiss;
something's about to burst
into Chinese fireworks just before
it's about to happen.
Saddle your filthy paint.
Jimmy the lock for leverage.
Over, that's the ticket.
Under wouldn't do.
Over's the answer today;
over & not so much under
the hood of your discharged
without a license '34 Ford coupe
or '48 Plymouth with me trapped beneath
you & Roger Lyle entering
the Skydrome Drive-in via the exit,
alien speakers ripped from aluminum pods
& streaking Military Trail like fireworks
from the Palm Beach County Fair.
What's wrong with that?
I play mostly songs
between the hits;
it's not I don't appreciate
an occasional hit or three, it's just
I don't feel obliged
to Gorilla Glue myself to the ghost
of Jack the Ripper or any other fool
enough to declare rock star status
during our down-turned economy.
What's this, now, Daddy's in the alley,
he's looking for food, but I stumble
from a shoe, a patent leather strapless get-up
for a night out with Pagliacci's best friend,
& I'm in the kitchen with a Bouvier flooze
sniffing & eyeing her AAA food,
filtered water every 4 hours
or so, & here we are, again;
though we swore we'd never meet
this way again; here we are.