.
BRENDAN CONSTANTINE IS

MY KIND OF TOWN

free sample poems

Freeway of Love

Driving east through the San Fernando Valley at midnight
I see you driving in your car
I drive alongside
start to make silly gestures and faces

hoping you’ll notice
You don’t
You are too busy watching the woman in the car in front of you

She is the woman you love
and she’s been having car troubles lately
You don’t want to avert your eyes for even a moment

Lest that be the moment her car explodes
or vanishes
or both

So I drive alongside her car
Make additional gestures and faces
Hoping she’ll notice

She doesn’t
She loves you intensely, too
Knows you are following

Is busy driving safely
So there will be no incident
So you won’t worry

The two of you exist in your own separate driving reality
Only aware of each other
and the road ahead

to home
Neither of you notice me in my car
and that is beautiful

Trout Fishing In Los Angeles

I explain my emotional connection with cheese
to a wide eyed man who counters with his allegory
of the fish and chips so good, it killed him.

“What are you going to do now that you’re dead”
I ask the man, and he says nothing, like dead men do.
It’s then that I notice his tie is not merely silk

designed to look like a fish; it’s actually a fish.
Trout, specifically. The kind you might find in a trout stream,
or in your backpack, if you’re the type to carry trout around.

Trout like the one hanging from this man’s neck,
like it had been lynched, like, watch out Halibut,
you’re next. It’s then that I notice the rest of the man’s

outfit is made up of a trout stream. The kind of trout stream
you’d find in a place where they have lots of trout streams.
Turns out there was no dead man. I’d been having a conversation

about cheese with a trout stream. Imagine my surprise.
I gather myself together, say to the trout “Hello Mister Trout.”
Trout says back to me nothing, like trout do,

then swims away, probably to spawn. It’s then that I notice
before the trout disappears into the trout stream distance,
it seems to be wearing a neck tie in the shape of a dead man.

I check to see
if I am still breathing.
I am not.

Gone to Istanbul

I have your pen
left on the table
before three months in Istanbul

You won’t need it there
where for less than the price
of an American coffee

Ten men
will write down
everything you say

So be careful
what you say
You have the tendancy to go on

Which we love
here in Los Angeles
But in Istanbul

the extra three minutes
riffing on your favorite German director
could change history

We don’t want calls from the UN
You’ll need to feed his cat
for an extra two years

while we question him
about Klaus
and the boat.


Stick to the bazaars
They’re outside
You can get lost

in the hookah options alone
Two years is too long
for a cat to go without food


A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast | I'd Like to Bake Your Goods | Stolen Mummies | Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town
Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
| I'm a Jew, Are You? | Lizard King of the Laundromat | I Am My Own Orange County
Paris: It's The Cheese
| Poetry Super Highway | Judaic Links | Rick's Bookmarks | Cobalt Poets
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