Alan Britt


Alan Britt






WHO CAME FIRST: MOTHER  OR THE EGG?                              




Granite pigeon itches outer layer of folliculitis,

itches outer layer of a 1950’s Norfolk, Virginia placenta,

itches the only scratchy, snowy, black & white TV channel

featuring boxing as only a 1950’s scratchy black & white Magnavox

serving it up chased by a 12-ounce plastic accordion cup

of 10% tropical juice heavily spiked with vodka could.




Half a century hence

memes tease my organically shampooed hair,

microscopic aliens

barely alive this side of quantum physics.




She wonders: Is it too high a price

to ask the boys to risk their lives

for another nanometer of mud?


She adds: How does nonsense

advance humanity?




Turns out nonsense doesn’t budge humanity

one bullshit inch!


Not one indecipherable inch.


Oh, well, like African civets

spending semi-cool Thursday evenings

on acacia branches too thin

for academic leopards

out roaming the underbrush,

hunting for mates in estrous

or conversely on lookout

for an easy meal,

he rides the thermals

of imagination:

vapors of solitude.






Glass inflammatory, vegan hospice

high upon the hill,

leather elixir:

leather exhales its 50-or-so years

of primordial hardship;

green verbs sniff dark matter in estrous;

punctuation marks

like mustaches

litter flagpoles

above the nearest World Trade Center.


The harbor relaxes in August MTA fumes,

and tourist buses

line up like perfect Marines

to swarm the darkest depths

of the National Aquarium.


The aberrant groan of a radio antenna

on a powder blue and white ‘56 Chevy,

as if…as if the aberrant groan of guavas,

or something akin to Medieval monks

ringing dinner bells,

waving them emphatically

in hopes that the Lord

would ravage them once in a while,

would implant a quicksilver arrow

deep, deep, deep into their holy sex

as common as vermin

raiding their metaphysical barns,

raiding their faith in the Holy Ghost,

raiding pharmacies stocked with 20 million

opaque plastic tubes

with impossibly opaque plastic snap-on lids

like sacred candles igniting the dust settled

peacefully, democratically,

holistically, indefatigably,

irresistibly, low, impatiently,

closer, inching closer

like a star-nosed mole

blind as a bat,

as in bats held in highest esteem

in the belfry,

harmlessly and pantheistically,

thus preserving the terrestrial fortunes

of dictators in all their guises:

MD’s, senators, CEO’s, presidents

and their kin, popes and tribal misfits

on the verge of holocausts,

drunken asteroids flinging themselves,

hurtling themselves like bloody homemade Roman nails

through the wrists of those

whoever had a peaceful thought

about how the earth should behave

if only the earth could behave,

if only the earth, this singular,

lava-spewing rattlesnake of a planet,

if only bison hooves resembling

the fife and the drum,

if only goldfinches, silver, reptilian oysters,

and aquamarine mantis eyes

could awaken us from our self-imposed nightmare!


A simple poet with a spoon

once approached the aging moon,

gouged the eyes of crocodiles,

slapped the bottoms of baboons…

if only wool, alpaca, Icelandic

or otherwise, sulfur as it dissolves

between the hips of primordial lovers,

if only………………if only,

if only………………if only,

if only.






At a dance by the beachside,

Lake Worth, I believe,

thatched roof sheltering

teenaged hormones,

I danced vicariously,

as I recall,


to the lethal effects

of my tropical cologne.


I soon learned, though,

that crossing railroad tracks

at suicidal speeds

in my silver ’57 Chevy

wouldn’t carry me

across the galaxy, hopelessly

entangled as I was

in the bare shoulders

of another boring History class.






You say you want to be friends,

but I’m this huge monster

and I’m scared to death of you.


How can I be friends with you?


You creep me out in ways

I can’t explain;


I shouldn’t panic

at the sight of you.


But I’m terrified

of you,

out the corner of my eye,

tickling my ankle,

driving me to habits

I’m not proud of.


I don’t know if we’ll ever

erase this terror etched

like hieroglyphs

into the sooty tunnels

of our DNA.


And, besides, it just

wouldn’t be the same

without you,

without your melancholic,

omniscient stare

haunting my every move.






Above the ringing black telephone

startling two wrinkled bloodhound ears

the lanky farm girl

tossed hay across her Indiana barn.


I fell in love

with bales of hay

that day,

their dirty blond shadows

dripping from the eaves,

thin shoulders

fully empowered,

waiting for the old crows

to return.






I figure I’m about three years old

watching Miss What’s-Her-Face

on Ding-Dong School in Logansport

while hammering yellow dowels

into geometric holes because

I really want Miss What’s-Her-Face

to baptize me while Mother’s busy

negotiating the next 12 years or so

of our hectic lives.


After countless battered dowels

scratchy TV credits begin to roll

just as I secure vapor lock

on my first yellow dowel!


Bless me now, oh, black and white matron!


Jesus, I feel like I’m three, today,

watching Miss prematurely grey

What’s-Her-Face on Ding Dong School.






The Napa River . . . terrific place

for miners skimming gold.


Gold gushed from this forgotten river.


Freight trains rattled the Napa’s arteries,

and life was dazzling,

such as it was.


No matter now.


Today the Napa coyly unravels her silk serape,

then ripples the backs of her merlot fingernails

across the chardonnay harp of your pubis.


The Napa River,

well, now, that

beats rooster gumbo.


Don’t you think?






Slate and gneiss,

slate and granite,

hornblende and quartz,

stacked and wedged,

woven into a gentle chaos

of elephant knuckles

where lichen etches

whitegreen kisses.


Walls spotted like salamanders,

ringed in jaguar smoke,

speckled like freshwater trout,

frozen yet dreaming,

forever dreaming

of winter, spring, summer and fall.


Westchester walls,

of slate and gneiss,

slate and granite,

hornblende and quartz,

stacked and wedged,

woven into a gentle chaos

of elephant knuckles

where lichen etches

whitegreen kisses.











Alan Britt2


In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture Benjamín Carrión in Quito, Ecuador as part of a cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. During his visit, he participated in the international literary conference sponsored by La hermandad de las palabras 2015 in Babahoyo, Ecuador. He served as judge for the 2013 The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. He read poetry and presented the “Modern Trends in U.S. Poetry” at the VII International Writers’ Festival in Val-David, Canada, May 2013. He read poetry for the 6×3 Exhibition at the Jadite Gallery in Hell’s Kitchen/Manhattan in December 2014. Also, sponsored by LaRuche Arts Contemporary Consortium (LRACC) he read poetry at the Union City Museum of Art/William V. Musto Cultural Center in Union City, NJ in May, 2014. His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. A new interview for Lake City Lights is available at His latest books include Lost Among the Hours: 2015, Parabola Dreams (with Silvia Scheibli): 2013 and Alone with the Terrible Universe: 2011. He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.



Alan Britt3


ALAN BRITT: Library of Congress Interview:


Alan Britt poem


ALAN BRITT, 233 Northway Road, Reisterstown, MD 21136,  USA

(PH: 443-834-8105…EM:


Alianza: 5 U.S. Poets in Ecuador

(Steve Barfield, Alan Britt, Alex Lima,

Silvia Scheibli & Lilvia Soto)

Alan Britt4

(ISBN #978-0-9647754-4-2)


Rio Rico, AZ


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