Sometime in the mid-1980s, Don Colvin (1960-2014) sent me this poem. I’ve given it a title and, because Don wrote in an architectural all caps hand, used lower and uppercase in the idiosyncratic way I think he would have liked. On the back of the sheet of computer-printer paper he wrote, “If you publish please refine, rewrite, and edit freely.”
Joe Cocker, Out on a Beer Run
by Donald Colvin, Jr.
It feels like I want to write like the singing
Star Joe Cocker’s yogurt-like, satiric-commemorative, residual latex type rendition of: Consequence, the Remaining Imbalance. Never, Have I heard of that.
I’m sure about one thing about Joe Cocker, that I cannot share.
No other time ago, the Poems were gone. None had been seen or heard from in some time.
The people (Poems) could not stand still for this. They cried out, “We must find them!” And went about it.
It started, well, like a scream, knowing all along that it would be like a scream, but all the while pretending to be one. It wasn’t a scream at all. I twas a force we resist, and stare at each other for. A force we have, still.
The colors streaked past the frightened faces, repelled by their acknowledging expressions, free to soar past in a glancing represent sweep.
“Love to!” The Shrieked and Sped by the mirror of a local sunset.
It feels like Joe Cocker came by, while I was making a beer run. It isn’t the same as when I left.