Hitching Post

 

A hippie sings his heart out

in front of Christ Church, Oxford,

his voice out of tune with

his out of tune guitar.

Our guide, beer on his breath

at ten o’clock in the morning,

says in his best Queen’s English,

“Good thing Old God doesn’t

have to listen to that.”

 

Forty years later this sets off

post-modern contemplations.

God can choose. He can

tune out, tune in, drop out.

In the beginning was the word

which my histrionic Lacanian friends

took to mean that the structure of language

preceded the existence of the Supreme Being.

Old God must have chuckled at that.

 

Now Old God is post-temporal.

Everything, even this poem, is in the past.

There is no now that we can grasp:

it slips through our fingers

like water on an infant’s palm.

Even Old God is post-god,

absent at the moment

of his presence.

 

 

 

East Park, Petoskey, Michigan

 

On this snow-covered path

where only wind sings,

I watch my breath-mist

short as each slide

of my skis and peek

through evergreen boughs

laden with winter’s white

comfort to glimpse frozen

Traverse Bay—my heart

undulating madly amid

this algid world in which

I am blessedly lost, gone

to a place where death,

giddy and carefree, glides

his brittle bones

across the ice,

performs a Triple Lutz,

a Toe Loop,

ice-sprays

to a stop.

 

 

© Charles W. Brice

 

Bio: Charles W. Brice is a retired psychoanalyst and is the author of Flashcuts Out of Chaos (WordTech Editions, 2016) and of Mnemosyne’s Hand (WordTech Editions, forthcoming, May, 2018). His poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Atlanta Review, Hawaii Review, Chiron Review, The Dunes Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Sport Literate, SLAB, The Paterson Literary ReviewSpitball, and elsewhere.