four poems
by Chuck Kramer
Overheard
the wife tells her husband to stop smiling
the child promises to behave
the teacher complains about dolts
the cashier sniffs about strange odors
as the scarved woman fumbles for coins
the boy asks his girl friend
for a taste on the walk home
the nun kneels with lifted eyes
whispers to Jesus to save her
the cop curses the homeless
woman on the bus stop bench
the car salesman asks
the frowning mom “Do we have a deal?”
the dementia patient insults
the aide sorting pills
“You’re nothing but a fat slob.”
the aide responds without looking up
“Kiss my big, fat ass, bitch.”
the driver sings Help at a red light
the child whines to be carried
the candidate promises to put things right
while the crowd scoffs and moves away
The Immigrants—Travels to Another Dimension
I.
I stand on the ruins of ancient civilizations,
feet anchored on the bones of ancestors
who followed the sun to a new world
desperate and drawn by dreams
of smiling children, a full stomach,
and a plump, satisfied spouse.
Farming cracked soil
and raising cows that gave no milk,
they came to the city
to drive delivery wagons
pulled by tired horses,
to sell the beef and bones
that other men raised.
Entrepreneurs and businessmen
whose humanity was silenced
by ambition and empty wallets,
they took solace in devil whiskey
and fantasies of success
that foundered on the concrete steps
of reality along the shores
of this quiet but ferocious lake.
Some expired, others rose in the smoke
of commercial fires to suburban grandeur
but their gift to me was song and long
memory of their soured schemes
and ancient dreams which are now mine .
II.
Native-born, I too am foreign,
traveling unfamiliar streets in my fractured city,
betrayed by tribesmen who lick totems
and sign the cross in sunny crowds
but when darkness covers
their dirty, scarred hands,
they send sharp, barbed spears
into innocent, unsuspecting hearts.
The children of my youth
are now monsters
preying on the weak, scorning the poor,
adoring the dollar and costumes of success,
their bones bleached by malice
and the brutal betrayal
of their neighbors’ needs.
I don’t speak that language.
I don’t know the prayers.
I can’t sing the songs
and my dreams are long gone,
nightmares now which howl
on the rooftops of this strange
and cruel land, hungry wolves
haunting my heart, phantasmagoric carnivores
cracking my brittle bones with sharpened teeth
and a satisfied, unconscionable gluttonous grin.
We Danced in the Club
dancing in that crazy club
music vibrating the walls
lights strobing the night
while tattooed girls wide-hipped
down the bar with blue hair
and boys wore lipstick
and stiletto heels
spinning from lips to cock
and on to pulsing wet labia
and back to arms that clutch and snare
and off to lusting legs
as my fingers searched and probed
for the needle in your haystack
while you ransacked my dreams
and stole my innocence
and I giggled at the loss of what
was no longer mine—
I didn’t mind—
but you really ought
to have thanked me
for your midnight glow
that lit the floor
before you fled with
that dark-skinned shadow
who stole your heart and
led you off from my empty bed
where I cried and bled
with the anguish of the
spurned and disdained
a carcass covered in cold sheets
Mirror Image
Most things are two sided—
night day
black white
up down
in out
but who I am
is not quite
this nor that
gay or straight
man or woman
old or young
tall or short
smart or foolish
strong or weak
I’m a rounded mirror
you’ll see what you want to see
or what I want you to see
but never
all of me
Photo of Chuck Kramer
BIO: Chuck Kramer’s poetry and fiction have appeared online and in print, most recently Synchronized Chaos, The Brussels Review, Lothlorien, and The Raven’s Perch. He has also been a finalist in the Gwendolyn Brooks Open Mic Poetry Awards in 2017 and 2023. Memoir in Chicago Quarterly Review (a Notable Essay in Best American Essays 2023), Sobotka, Evening Street Review. Journalism in Chicago Tribune, Sun-Times, Reader, Windy City Times, and Gay Chicago Magazine.