KG Newman
KG Newman is a sportswriter who covers the Broncos and Rockies for The Denver Post. His first three collections of poems are available on Amazon and he has been published in hundreds of literary journals worldwide. The Arizona State University alum is on Twitter and more info and writing can be found at kgnewman.com. He lives in Hidden Village, Colorado, with his wife and two kids.
Thinking About Asterisks
Pete Rose is lying again:
He’s going around the supermarket
saying he’s in the Hall of Fame:
and in-between picking apples
I cough in affirmation.
Who gives? I like a feint
of gold in my water.
I don’t mind rain on a sunny day.
And there’s no way to tell me
obsession doesn’t come with
a bit of superstition in posterity:
Pete says his record could be broken
but he’s not counting on it. Then he grins,
and pays for beer and scratch cards
with a large bag of pennies.
Breaking Point
Concussed by brown clouds, I scream Fuck it
and see right through the glare of the sun,
ignoring the rage of the city notorious
for canning everything at a moment’s notice.
Who among these brutalist buildings
taught my four-year-old son how to punch?
How to jab like Oh, now you’re going to start
being a dad all of a sudden? I mutter on with
these questions while inside the high-rise
she gets the news her father is going blind
as the network anchor also reports the police
are still trying to locate the escaped yak.
On the live feed a squad searches the agora
where the final descendent of his line
plays speed chess against himself
as the shadows close in with the cold. So it’s not
a photo op as the yak struts out of an alley
and behind him as he plays. Passersby stop to document
the juxtaposition. After all, the man’s possibly
on cocaine, and is having difficulty tasting his bagel.
I’m Smelling His Hair
because now family room football’s
become my praxis of fatherhood,
passed down,
even while realizing
an open heart and soft tackles
are not the same
as completely ethical parenting.
I want him to know me
in kneed shotgun and from
the shotgun seat and
not find me out at the same time,
or just maybe sometime
on a dirt road
bent at its axis. We get lost
and do what dreamers do: Wait.
Acres of still pines.
Sheened sunsets, carving boulders.
Across the foothills our progenitor
rests in a hospice. His memories taken,
even rug-burned ones. This far
from the peak of any mountain,
I measure love
by its anguish.
Sleep Paralysis
What happened to my consuming desire
to burn shit?
To play zero-sum games?
Now every night my wife and I
just battle with the lights—
she wants the front porch on for security,
I want to dive into a black hole.
Correspondingly every morning
feels like frost on grass,
ready for deer to trample around
and make the day’s inspirational message.
Is this metamorphosis
or just a metaphor for next?
Why don’t I still check for ghosts
and stay ahead of developments
in these rooms full of elephants?
Where did the second-hand go?
If I took the car out of park
and let it roll down the hill,
would my past crash dummies
finally stand for something?
I smell her hair on my shirt.
I need the answer to Seven Across:
“That’s wonderful to hear!”
I’m ready to open the window
and jump to a reckless faith.