Tag Archives: Bobby Beebe

The things that scared me most.

by Bobby Beebe


I could not see,
even though you said it was
In plain sight.
Sitting in the backseat, with the moon
not giving me enough. When we were young
looking through binoculars. Imagination was
what made the earth turn.
Science was
The bible, red lipstick, the poison ivy itching on my leg.
I could not believe.
All the other shit.

All the other shit
I could not believe:
The bible, red lipstick, the poison ivy itching on my leg.
Science was
what made the earth turn.
Looking through binoculars, imagination was
 not giving me enough. When we were young
sitting in the backseat, the moon
 in plain sight.
Even though you said it was
I could not see.

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From the Side of the Road 746 Miles from Home

by Bobby Beebe


You are sore from a week’s worth of learning
where you came from. From the bottles
full of water. That you would not drink
In fear of a longer life and more miles
than either of us would care to walk.
That last one took something out of you. Something
I held just days before. Before we saw that deer, headless,
but not bleeding. Not bad. On the side of the road next to
soft drink cups and whatever the hell else
couldn’t have waited. You were there with it.
Curled up next to an empty Skoal can.
That smell of where you came from.
You wanted him. The bottles
full of spit. And you drank. You took him in.
Your youth not eternal, your stomach
in knots. You let him go
In a rest stop trash can two miles away
from the house you did not grow up in. The house
your father built.

death

by Bobby Beebe


after Jesus by Brand New

We stand on a corner where
all the cars drive too fast. And you’ve
got a bottle of whiskey. You take a pull and spit it out. Screaming “This tastes like
wood.” I laugh as I take a drag
and lean against one of those telephone poles that is covered in
nails from posters that the wind has ripped off and crucified onto car windshields.

We sit at the corner all night. Fighting off the
sleep so that we might see an accident. A death if we’re lucky.
Inside we know it’s wrong. As we sit with fingers crossed. The sounds
of sirens echoing in our minds. We just want to know death.
This way we are prepared. So we will know when to unplug the
machine.

Back

by Bobby Beebe


From the backseat of a ‘91 Carolla
I told you “No.”
Hoping that you or the car
would explode. But you just turned your eyes
to your shoes. Which meant
your trips down south must have been
worth it. Where you didn’t shower
for three months and you slept in tents
on the cold, hard ground. The ground
will break you. You can find God on that
ground and you did.
You came back with a dry
mouth and a clear throat.
A coin and a prayer in your
wallet. I was surprised to see
your head shaved when we
picked you up. You hiding
behind a long sleeve shirt
in hot July. As if we could forget.
When you got in the car you
put on that song and I
told you “No”
But you did not explode.