Poem: Outside the news cycle

Outside the news cycle

Patrick T. Reardon

 

Army Bob went in search of Army Bob in the alley

behind the brothel, in the McDonald’s corner booth,

in the dark garage, under the porch hiding, on the

sidewalk to the Columbus Park lagoon, within the

fold-door closet of childhood, beneath the relentless

fall of sleet, beside the River of Babylon, in the

sacristy of St. Thomas Aquinas Church in the six a.m.

weekday dark robing for the altar, in the ambulance

to the hospital where he was born with a caul, beside

the shoemaker’s last on the floor asmell of leather,

beyond the No One Forest.

 

In the far distance: Butterfly-man, evil motive, dead

harvest. Pretended wife, negotiated burial place,

point made and remade.

 

Some say: Leave the infant under the bush.

 

One-Cent gathered innermost blessing, gathered the

dew of the earth and the flesh of heavens, the smell

of chocolate near Cabrini-Green, the piss smell of the

elevators, the smell of raiment in the Amvets store, all

brown cattle, gathered the bargain of sinners, the

counting of saints, belief, patience, yearning. The

communion of voters.

 

If Boccaccio wrote Latin, Luther wrote Latin, if Eliot,

Austen, Joyce, Hemingway, Morrison, Dylan, Dickinson

wrote Latin.

 

Every Joseph is a pain in the ass as he gets things done,

dreaming of his name rising up the wall over all others,

each of those bowing. Trespass, blood, Potiphar’s wife.

 

Some say: Walk, stand, sit.

 

The first angel was mistaken for the Unnamable. Another

first angel appeared at the corner of 79^th and California,

near the weed lot at the corner overgrown with broken

shards, to a two-year-old with a full diaper, running away

from supper. A third first angel told of Philistine integrity.

 

Some say: Revolution is sexy. So is the American Dream.

 

Lucy measured loss of loam, wrote with a shard of jewel,

studied the lump’s cold core. She magicked with the asp

at the breast, disguised the switchblade pocket, wrote a

book about the nun in the forest. Fifteen runners were

caught in the dragnet and led to the enclosure. She

discovered, pulling into her garage, she had driven

home without any lights.

 

The well-proportioned nymph of shadow, son of mountain,

twin of goddess brittle. Bird flies over the unburied.

 

Some say: Breath, planet signs.

 

Denmark Jones and the others were told never to say the

name of her at the center of the multi-vaulted treasure

room, never to be unlocked. The Adversary moved in next

door into the high-rise along Kingshighway, a quiet sort.

 

Some say: Take the low highways home.

 

Army Bob went in search of the Queen of Sheba, Eve and

Cleopatra, the sullen boulder goddess demanding nothing

less than bodies on the block, weathered skulls. Went in

search of the tall silence. Went in search of Army Bob

leaving now for distance. Went.

 

Patrick T. Reardon

6.10.26

 

 

This poem originally appeared in the Spring, 2026 issue of Milwaukee Avenue Messenger.