Subterranean Blue Poetry


Patrick T. Reardon


by Patrick T. Reardon

In the way the
fat Chicago
cop – vast
stretch of sky
blue uniform,
balding – and
the gnashed
centurion with
clink of sword,
old thick sweat
dirt, balding,
tuck fright
under thick
blankets of
swagger, she
filled my view
right to left,
up and down,
in and out, the
source of all, a
dry spring,
mother river.


by Patrick T. Reardon

The 1904 book is chemistry formulas
For mixing drinks, and, paging through,
I wonder, if the bartender blueprint
for Whiskey Daisy No. 3 calls for one
wine glass of whiskey, does No. 2 use
half a wine glass or two wine glasses?

In No. 8, is blueberry syrup substituted
for pineapple syrup?

By No. 37, are we talking now of cocoa
and salt?

          In the moment before explosion,
          when he has raised the gun
          and I have seen the metal,
          we will be twins
          again together
          in the womb.

Is this a blueprint for ice cream cake
by No. 184?

For German goulash by No. 586? For the
atom bomb by No. 1,949?

By No. 4,533, is this “Pilgrim’s

By No. 65,973, “Summa Theologica”?

          The banks tonight are high.
          A lone man walks the dark.
          He too feels
          the pull of the falls.

Is this a map to the treasure, shiver me
Timbers, by No. 165,341?

A route to the Garden of Eden by No.
432,008? A chart to Heaven by No.

          The valley is a waiting place,
          a place to wait forever.

Does God consult Whiskey Daisy No.
1,856,396 to learn the meaning of life?

Blank line
Or simply for a stiff drink at the end of
day? Or the world?

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2021