Four Poems by Jeff Weddle

Graffiti seen from a train window in Belgium, 2015

​Four Poems by Jeff Weddle

We Could Be Heroes
Just Your Standard Love Story
Settled In
Not John James Audubon,  Actually


We Could be Heroes
 
After they murdered Kong, 
the flyboys went out for beer. 
 
“What a day,” Larry said 
to no one in particular. 
“Did you see that damned thing?
Big as a damned department store.”
 
“Can department stores 
really be damned?” asked Reggie, 
the twin brother 
of Larry’s ex-wife, Maud. 

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​He looked so much like Maud 
that Larry sometimes felt 
uncomfortable urges, 
which he disguised with sadistic mocking. 
 
“You’re missing the point,” said Bernard, 
in his interrupting way. 
 
“Which is?” countered Reggie. 
 
“Which is that we killed 
a big motherfucking ape 
and we should already be famous 
and draped with dames.”
 
There was general agreement, 
with even Larry wishing 
some broad would sass her way over 
for a chance to fuck a Kong killer. 
 
No such luck. 
 
Across the sea, a gigantic, 
radioactive dinosaur awoke 
from a ten-thousand-year slumber. 
 
None of them knew it yet, 
but they would all be dead in a week. 
 
“Yes, they can,” said Larry, 
answering Reggie’s question 
from what seemed an age past. 
“Well, haunted anyway. 
That’s just as good.”


Just Your Standard Love Story
 
He said,
“Some of us
would be happy
just to see 
a flying saucer
a real one
you know
from outer space
and shit.
I know I would.”
 
She nodded, 
not listening,
thinking instead
of old lovers
who didn't 
give a fuck 
about flying saucers
and shit
but who had
for a while
given a fuck
about her.
 
That was
their way
 
until the afternoon
she answered
a knock
at the front door
and three men
dressed all in black
and looking 
very much
like old lovers
took her
far, far away
 
and he never knew
where she went
or suspected
the unending 
pleasures
she endured
at way past 
light speed
and accelerating 
 
but he did still wonder
what became 
of their love 
and, more specifically, 
of her
 
though he never 
saw her again
 
and he never saw
a flying saucer either 
 
and that's just
sad as hell.
 

Settled In
 
Another night in the lost motel 
and now I believe 
there are ghosts.
 
Maybe it’s just me. 
 
It seems like I’ve only been here since yesterday, 
but that would make this…. 
 
I can’t think about that now.
 
But I’m sure there is a ghost here, 
at least one.
 
The creaking in the hall gives it away. 
 
The odd stains that come and go. 
The stench. 
The conversations in the dark.
 
Another night in the lost motel.
 
Occasional headlights on a two-lane road,
and what wouldn’t I give
for a bottle of decent bourbon?
 
I’m not singing 
but I hear it 
in the rooms,
 
tuneless and awful,
unceasing,
 
telling me the mysteries 
just the same.


Not John James Audubon, Actually 
 
The painter of birds 
painted birds 
and only birds 
and took pride 
in the exact nature 
of his paintings. 
 
He painted birds at rest and in flight, 
birds nesting, birds walking on the ground, 
birds in battle with their insecurities, 
birds fighting with other birds, 
birds hunting prey, 
birds in their death throes, 
birds inside tornadoes, 
birds with broken hearts, 
birds perched on telephone wires, 
birds in abject confusion, 
birds with one eye gone, 
birds dancing, 
birds in love, 
and birds breaking free of eggs. 
 
He painted birds of all sorts: 
Falcons, eagles, chickens, ducks, 
wrens, ravens, crows, penguins, 
puffins, dodos, sparrows, 
Madagascar pochards, 
doves, emus, swallows, 
flamingos, gulls, pelicans, 
ostriches, geese, 
redwing blackbirds, 
hummingbirds, pigeons, 
parrots, tufted nuthatches, macaws, 
myna birds, canaries and so forth.
 
He painted every sort of bird 
except snowy egrets 
because he had his standards, didn’t he? 
 
The painter of birds 
was meticulous in his work, 
down to the last detail 
of the smallest feather,  
though only he saw his birds for what they were. 

​Others saw broken lamps 
and exhausted truck drivers 
eating three-egg omelets 
in cheap but clean diners,
mud pies, 
epic poems composed in small apartments 
at 3:00 a.m., 
still lifes with roses, 
nude women well past their prime, 
rocket ships to Jupiter, 
pimento cheese sandwiches, 
couches with dirty cushions,  
lost men down to their last cigarette, 
movie theater marquees 
advertising forgotten flops, 
empty bourbon bottles, 
pungent incense, 
serial killers coming in third in spelling bees 
and celebrating, 
torch singers, tears, backhoes, clowns, 
radishes, television comedies, 
aikido masters with their smirks, 
shotguns, 
bowling trophies, 
crack pipes, 
treasure maps, 
prostitutes enjoying their job, 
graham crackers and mist. 
 
Things like that. 
 
The painter of birds was a simple man, 
so no one expected it 
when he took flight 
and headed straight into the sun, 
exploding into supernova 
and modern dance, 
though it would be wrong 
to say anyone was truly surprised. 
 
His paintings were all he left behind. 
I’m sure you’ve seen them in your dreams 
and have died a little in their presence. 
Holy things do this to commoners like us. 
You will see them again, be certain.
Avert your gaze as needed. 

​Bio:
Jeff Weddle is a poet and writer living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He won the Eudora Welty Prize for Bohemian New Orleans: The Story of the Outsider and Loujon Press, and has also received honors for his fiction and poetry. Jeff teaches in the School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alabama. His work has appeared in Albanian translation.

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