The Hurricane

Cars pile up
on the highway,
bumper to bumper.
Everyone is out
looking
for gas
and water.
The whole county
seems caught
in some
wild
apocalypse.
They say
the wind
could tear
your roof off.
They say
the flooding
will be over
our heads.
Everywhere
is the sound
of
beeping horns.
People shout
into cell phones
like maniacs.
Maybe
these are
End Times.
I walk
into a store
filled with people;
I buy
a can of soda.
A pretty girl
with a big smile
stands
behind the counter.
If we're
going to die,
I'd like to die
quietly,
next to her,
in a warm,
comfortable bed.
She grins
and hands me
my change.
I walk
outside
into the chaos
of the coming storm.

Bitchin' Kitsch

My poem, "Mutants", has been published in the September, 2017 issue of Bitchin' Kitsch magazine. You can find it here: https://issuu.com/chris_talbot/docs/bksep2017issue
It can be found on page 13.




Note: Please click the enlarge button to see it full-screen.

Suicide

She and I
walk
through a park,
holding hands.
She used to
work here
in the summer
as a kid.
She tells me
it was
quite a popular site
for suicide;
every year
they would
find someone
hanging
from the rafters
of a shelter.
We talk about
the horror
of it all,
and then stand
by a stream.
I look over
at her:
blonde hair,
green eyes,
her face
fresh
and alive.
I lean over
and kiss her lips
as long
and as hard
as I can.

Former People

Two of my poems have been published on "Former People". You can click this link to view them: https://formerpeople.wordpress.com/2017/08/02/two-poems-52/

The Day Michael Jackson Died

I remember
where I was
the day
Michael Jackson died.
The announced it
on the radio
as my girlfriend and I
drove
to the liquor store.
People were
calling in;
everyone seemed
so sad.
"Thriller" played
as she walked
inside
to get vodka.
We talked
about it
all night
as we
downed shots.
At 2 a.m.,
we got into
a fight.
It was
quite brutal.
I ended up
drinking alone
on the back porch,
while she passed out
in bed.
Not all of us
can be pop stars;
some of us
are common drunks.

Control

He is a
big man,
about seventy;
I had never
seen him
at a meeting
before.
His hair
is white
and his face
is battle scarred.
He tells us
about his
newest problem.
"The only thing
I can control
is how I react to it,"
he says.
He leans back
in his chair
with his arms
crossed around
his chest
like two pieces
of lumber.
He goes on
to tell us
about his first
thirty days.
I stare at him,
nodding,
knowing.