Category Archives: Rod Peckman


Rod Peckman

I’ve learned enough to know
the less that happens the better.

I’ve now learned what to do
when a redolent message is delivered
to the door. What for? What use
this brocaded scent?

There is a dead letter box
in which to place inelegant thoughts
brought up to the face,
nostrils flare in odiferous air
I think rather not.

Your distanced bliss that conveys
I am beyond all this.
A dead letter box in which to enclose all
those precious puerile emotions,
that might startle a cultivated contrivance.
You will smile. You might smile then
shake your head, clean your glasses
and off to bed.

You go through motions. I muddle emotion.
You drink yours neat as I mix margaritas,
with inordinate fondness for guesswork
and hazard, toasting my long drunken friends
and spill onto rumpled sheets.

I’ve learned I will never be published
in the “ ___ ______” or, god knows, “ ______”.
I know enough that my singing
will fall wooden upon a good many ears
simply due to my atavistic fears
hearing only what I want to hear.

Can I write myself out of a corner if cornered?
I might upend a minute of your day—
fish ripening like fruit on a tree—
if given a chance. Love me like
a torrential one-night-stand
then strand me upon any shore alive
with skittering crabs, snatching
at the earnestness, the hanging strips of flesh
gone round the bend swaying
indecorously from the lip of my
watchman’s cap.

What more? I ask. Just how much less
of myself do you need me to give?

Please advise.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.

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