Puma Perl
Detour
Chuck Berry rides along in his automobile
and for a minute we forget the bumps in the road,
the impassable crossings, the detours, the smash-ups.
Last night I dreamt that my car was cracking,
windshield and windows falling apart, couldn’t find
the mechanic, fell into a recurring nightmare of late,
an inability to dress and get where I need to go.
The world has hit a detour, a live disaster movie.
I already know that I would fail at fantasy apocalypse,
trip over my feet running from zombies, forgetting
how to load a high-powered rifle or cauterize a wound.
When I wake, I text my Los Angeles friends,
some only able to provide one-word responses.
Depression. Anxiety. Fear. Anger.
In New York City, we argue about congestion fees
and RFK Jr, and everyone hates the mayor, and nobody
knows what to do except send money or push it all away.
If you can.
The path is never smooth.
The path is never linear.
The path is filled with rocks and detours
from the sky to the earth.
One way or another, we will return
to ashes and can only hope to be dead
before we hit that final detour in the ground.
Paranormal
None of it is normal,
and they are all, at best,
para-human.
RFK Jr is a walking,
talking, lying para-phile,
a word I just made up because
I keep finding myself speechless.
Para-phile: sub-human,
with the ability to convince oneself
of abnormal intelligence despite
a brain filled with worms.
The only thing I had liked about him
was his heroin addiction, although
a boarding school drug dealer
who seduces his younger relatives
with dope is unrelated to the many
basically decent junkies I once knew
Like my friend Mikey Legs used to say,
talking about recovery meetings:
Scumbag out there, scumbag in here
I’ve replaced the idea of “the new normal”
with “paranormal” because none of it is new
and none of it is normal and their ideas defy
any sort of scientific proof or evidence,
except for the statistical probability
of history repeating itself again and again.
Who Will Save the Day
Who gets to decide
when it is over,
the world shrinking,
knives
to guns to
bombs to heat to
frozen waters to panic
to pandemonium pandemic.
Temperatures rise feverishly,
drop like whispers
of fear and love,
regret and hate and forgiveness,
and what else is left?
Who decides when
we start again
and what is truly ours
as we unseal bunkers,
shining pans pegged
on steel walls,
gallons of water
and high-powered rifles,
Light falls on faces,
waiting for food,
waiting for shelter,
waiting, waiting, waiting,
tearing at our hearts
tucked away so long
for safekeeping,
just in case
love triumphs,
like Mighty Mouse,
here to save the day.
IRRADIANCE
Somewhere a carny barker laughs and tells our stories
as we sit, staring at flat screens, kaleidoscopic color,
wondering how the world became this R Crumb nightmare
A president born into a housing empire, color lines intact
Tutored by Roy Cohn
Behind him a demented version of the Katzenjammer kids
Matching blue ties, they stand without spines
They protect the unborn
They starve the children
and the earth boils in rage
I remember my youthful arrogance
Considering anything beyond my comprehension irrelevant
Physics, solar cycles, biochemistry, luminosity, irradiance
We wanted a rock and roll revolution
Free beer and pizza for everyone
Poetry and music
Armed love
A poem won’t throw a motherfucker
up against a wall
But maybe a pissed off poet can
Somewhere the younger me runs fast, jumps barricades,
climbs fences,
laughs, and tells our stories
Between Two Worlds
The day after, 2016. Sky, gray, colorless.
Lower East Side streets silent, locked down.
Nobody knew what to say, where to look.
“Good Morning” greetings sounded almost obscene.
Last night, rather than witness the country turning
red, I decided to walk my dog, Fae. Through
the Vladek Housing, onto Grand, back around Jackson,
down Water, fewer than a dozen people to be seen.
I stopped at a store and bought chocolate,
but once home found I had no appetite for it,
nor any desire for the Kettle-One sitting in my freezer.
Shutting down the electronics, I discussed
my feelings in a long conversation with the dog.
Turned out I was talking to a black sweater
curled up in Fae’s usual corner of the leopard couch.
Picking up on my anxiety, she’d crawled into the closet.
The day after, 2024. The sky is ridiculously, horrifically,
bright, almost a 9/11 blue, November temperature over 70.
Will the earth ever forgive us for what is to come?
Unlike 2016, people are out walking, talking, expressing anger,
fear, confusion; still, we are numb, unsure of the next steps.
Everything except the future seems frivolous
and the future is too frightening to contemplate.
In my building, many neighbors are doing their laundry.
Because we have to do something when, overnight,
our housing and existence feel more fragile than ever,
and at least we can try, desperately, to stay clean.
Life, whatever that means, needs to go on, art and music
and books and dogs and family and friends need to go on,
and my need for a salon appointment needs to go on, too.
I text Joey Hair: Even though Trump will probably cut our heads off,
I still have to reschedule our appointment.
He responds: I’ll find a date before they round me up for the camps.
Tonight, we’ve scheduled a rehearsal, and another on Sunday,
and a record release party on Tuesday; we have our bodies,
our minds, our souls, our art, a little hope, the sun rises,
the music plays, the dogs bark, and we struggle, but we go on.
Puma Perl is a poet, writer, and performer and the author of two chapbooks, Ruby True and Belinda and Her Friends, and three full-length poetry collections, knuckle tattoos, Retrograde (great weather for MEDIA), and Birthdays Before and After (Beyond Baroque Books.) She is the front woman and primary lyricist in The Puma Perl Band, brings spoken word together with rock and roll and has performed together since 2012. She’s received five awards from the New York Press Association in recognition of her journalism and was the recipient of the 2016 Acker Award in the category of writing. In May of 2021, she curated and performed in four shows as part of the HOWL Happening! Artist in Residence program. In 2022, she was honored to read at the Whitney Biennial, New York City. With musician Joe Sztabnik, she recently released a record album, “Under Tenement Skies,” available in vinyl, CD and digital download.