COLIN DODDS


Colin Dodds grew up in Massachusetts and completed his education in New York City.
He's the author of several novels, including The Last Bad Job, which the late Norman
Mailer touted as showing "something that very few writers have; a species of inner talent
that owes very little to other people." Dodds' screenplay, Refreshment - A Tragedy, was
named a semi-finalist in 2010 American Zoetrope Contest. His poetry has appeared in
more than ninety publications, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He lives
in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife Samantha.






Leaving a Little at the Jagged Rocks

Echoes engulf the man
at the bar writing his letter.
His habits sing into themselves.
His fears weave a fugue.

Maybe she would have liked you
if you were nice and happy.

Scratching paper, glad to be oblivious.

There are no such women.

He continues, though, writing hard
in a bar where you are in no way
your brother's keeper:

"We have failed to love, you and I.
And, worse, we have failed
to garner any spoils from our attempt."

As always, the crying can wait.

"I know that the cost being marked in my heart
may be more than I can pay.
But I will not sign the treaty you have in mind."






The Lay of the Half-Seen Land

Bottle after bottle,
lined up like a skyline or a schedule.

"I'm not looking for beer, exactly,"
whispers the man at the bar.

"Everything vindicates me,"
cries somebody else.
I forget who. He must have gotten out.
And I've got to be going.

I look at the building, the bottle
and ask "friend or foe?"
And I can be no kinder to myself here,
where the daylight reflects off the bar.

It's a sight someone said
would turn a woman
into a pillar of thoughts.
I mean salt.






Pissing in the Wind

It's a windy old night
Here in Cooperstown
Somebody just burned
The Hall of Fame down

I finally made it
All the way to the top
An old bull wandering
The last china shop

Dropped my ID in the trash
Bought a bus ticket with cash
You can't be free and stay clean
If you know what I mean

It feels good, I suppose
I have smoke in my clothes
Watching the tall grasses bend
And pissing in the wind






Drunkard's Lullabye

Hey drunkey
Soon you'll be in bed
Pretty much as good as dead
So don't be so particular
It's too late, by hours and years
For anything spectacular
So just get your body home
You ruddy homely gnome



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