HoboEye Poetry:
Michael Earl Craig, Livingston, Montana, USA

THE MAN

He got tired of his body.
That’s what the papers said.
And that he jumped from a bridge.
And when you turned to page four
that’s all it said again,
in the plainest typeface,
he got tired of his body.

Sometimes I put a taco into my body,
or I walk slowly through
the very dark bedroom
(I have to take a leak)
like a head with legs,
like a marionette with my arms out,
wondering where the dresser is, or,
where is the monster jade plant?
My feet shuffle slowly across
the rough pine floor like
the feet of a cross-eyed circus bear—
up! up! (he’s on his hind legs)—
who wants only his blue tambourine,
which raises a really good question.

A fisherman looked up and saw the man jump.
He said, “I looked up and saw the man jump.”
He said that the man flapped his arms,
that the man had definitely changed his mind,
that it was a nice day, and that the man
was trying to fly over to a tree.




POEM WITH CRAB PUFF

At a crowded party on the upper east side—mostly intellectuals and artists, a few physicists, some Wall Street types and an oil tycoon—there was an especially celebrated figure with whom almost everyone wanted to speak. He stood somewhat cornered with a small plate in one hand, his other hand in the pocket of his navy blue cardigan.

It started out respectfully enough. They wanted to know what he thought about books, about theatre, about music, about politics. He was very polite, he smiled, but had little to say. They made a few jokes at first. Then they became agitated, they accused him of being stingy with himself, and eventually of being an arrogant elitist.

He stepped back and set down his crab puff. A sense of doom washed over him like a long, low note on a tuba. “You are a traitor,” someone said. He looked at them nervously. Then, “No, you are an idiot!” someone shouted. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to comment on your poached pears,” he said, getting carefully down on his knees. They attacked him with their forks and saucers.




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