Bob Lucky

January 3, 2018

“It Was Too Dark for a Light at the End of the Tunnel” by Bob LuckyPosted by

Bob Lucky

IT WAS TOO DARK FOR A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

I hadn’t been dead for more than an hour but I sensed my life would never be the same. For one, I was going to need a parka or a nice Icelandic sweater because it was getting chilly. I took this as a good sign. I always thought I was going to hell, so unless someone gave me a wildly inaccurate weather report, things were looking up. Just the thought of trying on a pair of wings was almost enough to give me an erection, though I have to say I was getting pretty stiff in general. A pair of wings would be something to take care of. It would certainly be better than polishing my shoes every Sunday morning. And then I felt as if I were coming undone. I was there and I wasn’t there. I saw a policeman roll me over and put his fingers on my neck like they do in the movies, just to see if there’s a trickle of hope running through the veins. “This bastard’s a clinger,” he said, before shooting me between the eyes. I don’t know why. 

—from Rattle #57, Fall 2017

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Bob Lucky: “There are days, these days especially, when words seem more slippery than usual. Some days you can use them to bury meaning. Other days they’re good for varnishing a truth or two. In general, I like them, which is why I write.”

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May 28, 2015

“Working with Ghosts” by Bob LuckyPosted by

Bob Lucky

WORKING WITH GHOSTS

Tanka Prose

1.

I like being a ghost dentist. They don’t feel any pain, so I don’t have to worry about hurting them. I sometimes administer laughing gas because they like it so much, and I enjoy watching them convulse with laughter. It’s like watching coconut jelly on speed. They gave up rattling chains at me long ago. I’m in this job for the money. Nothing scares me. The best part is, they don’t have teeth.

phantom pain
where my heart used to be—
in the mirror
everything I see
skin deep

 

 

2.

I like being a ghost teacher. Whatever they need to know to get by in this world, it’s too late to teach them. They’re dead, brain dead, always walking through walls as if they aren’t there. And you can’t understand a word they say; they moan a lot. I’ve tried to talk to them. I have a theory that ghosts are people who died during orgasm, but I can’t prove it. It’s just something I believe. Every year I give them all A’s. They’re never late to class. They never leave. When they really get into a book, though, they can be hard to find.

in a dream
I have my hands all over
Helen Keller—
I keep telling her the essay
must conform to MLA

 

 

3.

I like being a ghost gigolo. You have to be flexible because you never know where one ghost ends and another begins. Get a few in a room and it’s like an orgy. You also need to be tolerant and open to experiences. Gender is hard to determine. You might think you’re going down on Marlene Dietrich when you’re actually blowing Caspar. And you can be bi, trans, poly, or all of the above, but you haven’t lived until you’ve had a ghost go in one orifice and come out another.

Valentine’s Day
a neon heart flickers
off
and on and off and on …
the Morse code of desire

—from Rattle #47, Spring 2015
Tribute to Japanese Forms

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Bob Lucky: “Like most people, I had to write a haiku at some point in elementary school. I just never stopped. When my son was born, I had no attention span for anything longer than a recipe, so I gravitated toward cookbooks, short-form poetry, and ukuleles. I’ve been writing haibun and tanka prose for about ten years. Sometimes a haiku or a tanka needs a context. Sometimes, in order to resonate, the prose or prose poem needs an epiphanic clapper.”

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July 23, 2013

“Wouldn’t You Confess?” by Bob LuckyPosted by

Bob Lucky

WOULDN’T YOU CONFESS?

I want to write an anti-war poem
like Marvin Bell or Robert Hass.
I want to write an anti-war poem
but I’m always tripped up
by how stupidity gloms onto power until
power becomes stupid.
I’ve tried to write anti-war poems
but I don’t have the heart.
I don’t have the guts.
I do not suffer suffering well,
nor the inhumanity of us versus us.
I know we’re not all on the same team
but can’t we play nice?
I can’t think too much
about smashing testicles
waterboarding
electric cattle prods
boot licking piss showers
shit eating dog collars
without wanting to develop a serious drinking problem.
Wouldn’t you confess
to anything
if some moron with a high school diploma
or GED who enjoyed smashing your balls
looked forward to responding to your pained
muteness with another knee to your groin?
Say something. Say anything. Say you’re sorry for bleeding
on the fist that loves your face or pissing in your pants,
say you’re sorry for your accent and your father’s religion,
for the color of your skin or the gender of the person you love,
say you’re sorry for shitting on the baton shoved up your ass. Say
you’re sorry. They like that.

—from Rattle #38, Winter 2012

[download audio]

__________

Bob Lucky: “In elementary school, my teacher made me write a haiku. She got me hooked on words and images. In recovery years later, I wrote songs for ukulele, but it was too noisy for my wife. That’s why I write poetry. I’m addicted to words and images and my wife hates uke.”

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