Robert Kinerk ~ Five Poems

Yelling at the Baby

So, your baby is stand­ing up in her crib
cling­ing to the rail­ing with her chub­by hands
and squalling for rea­sons you can’t fig­ure out,

and Putin has bombed anoth­er vil­lage in Ukraine,
and Israeli set­tlers have knocked down
some Palestinian’s small home to build on the same spot themselves,

and there’s a smil­ing young man on your front porch
with a clip­board and a stack of dona­tion-pledge cards
can­vass­ing for help in fight­ing cli­mate change,

and a warn­ing light has start­ed flashing
on the dash­board of your 10-year-old Camry,
and the zipper’s stuck on your down jacket,

and your father has been diag­nosed with can­cer of the jaw,
and you haven’t paid your stream­ing-ser­vice bill,
and now Putin has moved on to bomb anoth­er vil­lage in Ukraine,

and you’re angry, and wild, and frus­trat­ed, and maddened,
and very near­ly ready to explode,

but
it doesn’t help to yell at the baby.

~

Life Story

This guy asked his date for a kiss
and she said, “What!”

He applied to eigh­teen colleges
and all of them said no.

The mil­i­tary told him
he was too skin­ny to serve.

He bought a Kaypro computer
just before that com­pa­ny stopped mak­ing them.

His first wife left him for a woman friend
and they now teach com­put­er skills to the unfortunate.

He fought so much with bosse
she rarely kept a job more than 14 months.

The longest job he had was obit­u­ary editor
for a dai­ly paper in New Hampshire.

For three years after he retired
he had to pay his own health insurance.

Counting his pen­sion and Social Security
his income is $2182 a month.

He mar­ried again and moved into
his new wife’s duplex home.

She just told him he left the gar­den hose running
and now there’s water on the base­ment floor.

So this is what he did:

He went out­side and taught his grandson
how to ride a bike.

~

How To Make a Peanut Butter & Jam Sandwich

I – The Consecration of the Host

Release the bread. The bread is Russian lady. Twenty-sev­en year. Blonde eye. Blue hair. She wait for her whole life to meet a cul­ture guy like you. Why not get togeth­er? What say check out this?

II – The Father, Son and Holy Ghost

Lather on the peanut but­ter. The peanut but­ter has com­plet­ed a course on DVDs in which dis­tin­guished sci­en­tists explain the ori­gins of the uni­verse. She’ll help you under­stand, in her qui­et, unpre­ten­tious way, dark mat­ter and all those quan­tum par­ti­cles squir­rel­ing mad­ly around inside the things we smell and taste and touch.

III – The Soul’s Escape From Sterile Light

Dab on the jam. The jam wants to help you increase the size of your penis. All you have to do is click where it says click here. I know it sounds crazy. The size of your penis? It’s an unwor­thy con­cern. And sci­en­tif­ic evi­dence denies it even works.  … Still …?

IV – The Tabernacle of the Night

In rou­tine, release.
Not vacan­cy, but peace.
The prayer with­out the priests.
In rou­tine, release.

~

Forgiveness Is the Heart’s Big Project

Big bucks and a hard-on
the American Dream
it doesn’t get more basic
the blood in the water that goes with the dream
the stirred-up feed­ing frenzy
the slash­ing with the saw-tooth teeth
jaws clamp­ing down
bones crunched into slivers
star­tled, unbe­liev­ing eyes
and then the bal­let of the small­er fish
feed­ing on morsels
in the midst of gush­ing red.

Afterwards, for­give­ness comes.
Forgiveness is the heart’s big project.
The one it saves for last.

~

How To Bag an Elk

Get up close to one and let him lick you.
You’ll taste like salt to him
because of all your sweat and oth­er body fluids.
Elk like salt, so he’ll fol­low you home.

Don’t do any­thing around your house to fright­en him.
Carry on as you usu­al­ly do—painting shutters,
reseed­ing the lawn, replac­ing roof shingles…
The elk will fol­low you around to all these jobs.

He’ll want to help, but of course he can’t.
He’s not a human; he’s an ani­mal with mag­nif­i­cent antlers.
Your neigh­bors will all stare from their yards
or from their upstairs windows.

They’ll send pic­tures of your elk to friends
in places like Sheboygan or Des Moines.
You’ll be in the pic­tures, too, because the elk
will fol­low you faith­ful­ly wher­ev­er you go,

hop­ing for anoth­er taste of your deli­cious salt
until it final­ly grows so old it succumbs
to heart worms or some oth­er elk infirmity.
When it dies what you must do is strip off its hide

and tan it into some­thing like a garment
you can put on over your bare skin
so you can be an elk your­self, and wait
atop some hill for some­one salt to come along.

~

Robert Kinerk is the proud author of the longest-run­ning play in Ketchikan, Alaska—The Fish Pirate’s Daughter—onstage since 1966. His new­ly pub­lished nov­el, ‘Mr. Sweetcheeks in Alaska,’ won an ‘Editors Pick’ dis­tinc­tion in Publishers Weekly. He failed mis­er­ably to make an impres­sion at the Eugene O’Neill Festival and at Breadloaf, but he didn’t embar­rass him­self too much when he work­shopped a play at Sundance. He and his wife, Anne Warner, make their home in Cambridge, MA, about halfway between Longfellow’s house and Longfellow’s grave. His poems have appeared in Rat’s Ass Review, Tough Poets, Raven’s Review and elsewhere.