Other Poems by:

Gary Beck


And on some unknown day

man created rope

and it was good to pull.

Rope immediately established

more order in the unstable world,

as long as someone held one end. 

And has pulled mankind to power,

necks, mules, carts, ships, planes

brought the goods, tolled the bells,

hanged the innocent and the guilty.

Knots, snares, lassos, ladders

have saved us from disaster,

weaving countless ties.

Little Dreams

Count the number of just so little dreams

and if you have ten fingers enough,

slowly darling you almost missed one,

you will barely find ten shy friends

when pressed will visit an impatient moment

not so long to make you feel most sure,

‘cause just so little dreams

smile stiff-jawed too.



reflections come, go,

remain sullenly poised,

posing in some venereal show,

passing in venal promenade,

wines on an east river terrace.

The blonde cannibal smiles,

her ravenous mouth

corrupt with midnight couplings,

that beautiful mouth

how many nights fastened on mine,

then gushing obscenities,

until our bodies joined

like two ferocious beasts,

finally screaming comecomecomemmme,

afterwards falling apart,

two strangers in a soiled bed,

strangers with dirty souls.


Cartagena, you have betrayed me

and would again,

if I escape the hangman.

Your past promises were taken

for delights too soon forgotten,

spent as fast as wasted treasure

concealed ancient pools of blood,

spilled with pleasure.

Continued War on Nature

The illuminations of the world

are fibrous curtains,

constructions of confusion,

the fear of nuclear eruptions,

economic deprivations

social rejections,

last remnants poisoned

by ominous mushroom clouds.

As the world shifts to sand

the dream for green tomorrows

leaves only a backward glance,

a yearning for illusion.


In combustible chambers
aloneness gathers
sparking an ecstasy of panic
white heat fast
details of confinement
furthering exile,
allowing no appeal.


Gravity’s got me down,
got me tight in its grip.
Don’t matter how I try,
I can’t shake loose of it.

I’d like to fly up, away
and catapult far beyond
the malicious clutch of earth,
but gravity grinds me down,
pulls me to the final crash.

Golden Horde I

She is not coming,
and will never come again.
I will pass the many midnights
like an amputee.
I shall not find
or opiate stupefaction.
I shall continue
as a crusade
and let the dark Saracen
slash my armor,
I pass
the weary dimness
in pusillanimous

Golden Horde II

You occupied me
like a Tartar,
And I
like a captive city
to survive the endless violations,
bent my will,
my knee.
Now immune to trampling
I watch your bannered host
into the voracious maw
of prosperity.


We’ve poured enough concrete
on our tattered land
to silence the crying earth.

We honor the wine steward
and despise the farmer.

If moonlight washed away our sins,
would we dance the night of hope?

The massacres of people
are better, worse, the same,
as daily butcheries
of fish, fowl, lion, lamb.

We’ve covered the earth with cities,
as aimless as the urgent ants.

I’m glad Thanksgiving comes but once a year,
the victims wouldn’t survive another meal.
**Copyright 2007-09, Gary Beck
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