Craig Kirchner is retired and thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Poetry Quarterly, Decadent Review, New World Writing, Neologism, The Light Ekphrastic, Unlikely Stories, Wild Violet, Last Stanza, Unbroken, The Globe Review, Skinny, Your Impossible Voice, Fairfield Scribes, Spillwords, WitCraft, Bombfire, Ink in Thirds, Ginosko, Last Leaves, Literary Heist, Blotter, Quail Bell , Ariel Chart, Lit Shark, Gas, Teach-Write, Cape Magazine, Scars, Yellow Mama, Rundelania, Flora Fiction, Young Ravens, Loud Coffee Press, Edge of Humanity, Carolina Muse, and the Journal of Expressive Writing and has work forthcoming in Valiant Scribe, Chiron Review, Sybil, Timalda’s Diary, Vine Leaf Press, Wise Owl, Moria, The Argyle, Same Faces, Floyd County Moonshine, and Coneflower Café.

Contemplating return

With opioid and dopamine systems 
working overtime,
we recollect fogged memories, 
and begin the process of reinstating faith in 
possible euphoric futures.

Youthful lust fades to surly and 
intolerable yesterdays,
but we cherish your sublime humor,
await your delicate, sensual,
perpetually perky presence soon.

To believe this - rehabbed, 
cauterizes the moment, 
the plants all grow toward the door, 
birds, and the few mice 
gather on the porch railing.

We all have waited patiently, 
planned the moment, 
with deep reflective thought, 
placed every touch of décor,
with prayer and meditation.

The molecules of this room
know your aura, applaud truth, 
true emotions, no feigned maybes,
only your presence,
the noblest of now.

You know it’s a must

Billy McC. ate glass, 
rolled out of moving cars and short trees,
wanted to be a stuntman,
had a plate in his head.

We’re sitting in a strange bar in 
East Baltimore, talking about 
the old days, like last summer,
listening to Norman Greenbaum.

   ‘Goin up to the spirit in the sky’

The native morning drunks take a 
dislike to something about us, 
whiskey and beer mixed so early with 
testosterone, and we’re not locals.

It gets to the mother bashing stage,
and I start to fantasize pain in 
geometric shapes, two guys 
in the morning mist pacing with pistols.

   ‘When I die, and they lay me to rest’

Bill in his best Clint Eastwood way 
grabs a bar stool, takes a bite, 
out of its black leather backing,
the perfect touch to calm the situation.

I felt bad for the stool, light a cigarette,
the big palm thing in the corner 
goes back to growing, 
the bartender takes his first of the day.

   ‘Gotta have a friend in Jesus’

Leaving, stumbling, Bill points out, 
completely out of context,
that the rain falls on the living and the dead,
and I wonder if he was listening to the lyrics.

Driving off the lot he mentions the time I 
talked him down with the knife in his hand.
I tell him we’re even, and nonchalantly,
inquire how he digests this stuff he eats for affect.

   ‘Go to the place that’s the best.’