“0,” a poem by David Berman

“0”

by

David Berman

first published in Caliban #8, 1990


On the very first day Jah gave light,
and on the second he made the sun and the stars.
It wasn’t long before things were jumping out of the river.

Later there were some wars, mostly soft and bloodless,
with snow falling on the sleeping tanks
and pieces of field glued to their wheels.

No longer all right to eat our young,
we made the Empire State Building and threw things off it,
then drank sidecars and Harvey Wallbangers until 1961.

People were heard to say that the world doesn’t care,
that the walls don’t listen, and the stars only shine on us
because we’re in the way of their light,

but the world continued to spin on its sturdy axis,
and underneath the Christmas trees the trains still ran on time,
while people united in sexual congress let pride feed.

“California,” a poem by David Berman

“California”

by

David Berman

first published in Caliban #8, 1990


It’s a movie based on a true story,
it’s a fat boy on a train with a dollar,
it’s got no cavities
and God on its shoulder.

Red meat, white people and blue skies,
it’s 50 states stuck together with barbecue sauce.
If you’re poor, someone will cry for you.
A cup of water is free
and the slave population here is zero.

From Arizona’s desert drug factories
to the hot sidewalks of Little Rock
to Florida’s Jewish beaches
people feel good about themselves
and their bodies.

Of course it’s hard to forget the kids outside Pittsburgh
who are into sorcery and stuff,
and the crooked men and women of Nevada dreaming of crime
in their blackened houses.

But on Sunday, when balloons float above the stadium,
and the highways stretch like cats under the hot sun,
we drive to the pool knowing the wheels could fall off,

and even California loves its future ocean grave.


“James A. Garfield and All the Shot People,” a poem by David Berman

“James A. Garfield and All the Shot People”

by

David Berman


Insects are a manifestation of negative will.
—Anon.

I thought I saw an angel below the engine
but it was just vibrating air.

People used to see things
in the woods and the air and the closet:
spirits, dragons, and headless things,
lost and angry floats
conspiring to make every stomach pulse
like an almost accident
and every body’s head come unwound.

Our vision is not so fuzzy now.
We stare into eyes and see their parts,
have cameras, sidewalks, pills,
and other futuristic devices.
Some of our race have counted up into the highest numbers,
the high clear numbers.

Now we know the speed of light,
and that we never see anything just when it happens,
but a part of a second afterwards.
People are getting lost in their own houses,
wandering down hallways and through rooms for years.
We stumble downstairs full of water,
and when I wake up it all pours out of me.


From Caliban #8, 1990.

The issue also contains a few illustrations by Berman, including this one: