Forced Perspective

By Conrad Gurtatowski

With literary influences that range from Jack Kerouac to Ayn Rand, the poetry in Conrad Gurtatowskis collection, Forced Perspective, is as eclectic and unpredictable as his life.
He wrote his first poem at age six: an ode to his tricycle. Since then his poetry has reflected his experiences as a Viet Nam War draftee, steelworker, railroad worker, salesman and postal employee. His verse chronicles our 21st century world through the eyes of an outlaw and outcast, retiree and grandfather, Objectivist and iconoclast.
This is poetry with passion, not pretense; it is acrimony leavened with slashing wit.
Mr. Gurtatowskis poems have appeared in numerous periodicals, including Blue Collar Review, Loves Chance, Valparaiso Review, Black Book Press, and assorted other journals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 28, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462835607

Conrad Gurtatowski

Conrad Gurtatowski’s roots run deep within the blue collar southeast side of Chicago, where he spent the first twenty-two years of his life. At that point he was drafted into the Army, and served in Germany for eighteen months. After being discharged, he held a succession of jobs: steelworker, insurance salesman, railroad worker, retail manager, and eventually postal worker. Today he is retired and lives in semi-rural surroundings in northwest Indiana. Here he spends his time indulging his grandchildren and struggles to write the “Great American Novel,” while awaiting the election of the first Libertarian president.

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Copyright © 2007 by Conrad Gurtatowski.

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Contents

MISSHAPEN IDENTITY

PEARL OF FRANCE

AN AFTERNOON WITH ERIC SATIE

DISSOLVING

FACE ACROSS THE WAY

THE TREELINE AND BEYOND

AUTUMN MAPLE

LEAVES

ORIGINAL HIPSTER

THE ICON

ONE WISH

HOLDING YOU

ON OUR ANNIVERSARY

FOR JOYCE (ALONG THE SILVER ROAD)

BAMBOO FUGUE

TELECOMMUNICATIONS

JUST LIKE MOTHER USED TO MAKE

INSIDERS/OUTCASTS

I USED TO LOVE THE CITY

MOVING OUT (MOVING ON)

OUR NEW HOME

DEER AT DUSK

FRESH LIFE

APOCHRYPHA

IMPRESSIONS BETWEEN RELAPSES

BEAU SOLEIL

EQUATIONS

2 HAIKU

ESMERALDA

DREAM DISEASE

UNFINISHED

SIX STRING ACCOUSTIC

. . . BECAUSE WE LOVE YOU

NEW YEAR’S DAY—2002

THE ARTISAN IN THE HILLS

WEDDING IN THE SMOKIES (12-99)

BLUE GRASS ON BLACK ASPHALT

AM RADIO

THE SOUND OF AMERICA

THE TRUTH OF AMERICA

THE CHILL OF APRIL

SUITE FOR A DAY

VESPUCCI’S OCEAN

JIHAD OF THE ANGELS

ONE JULY EVENING

SUMMER’S END

WINTER SOLSTICE

WINTER

STEEL MAN

MY FATHER

DISTRIBUTION CLERK

ANOTHER NEW BEGINNING

HOT POCKETS

REFLEX

SUBMISSIONS

TIGER THE CAT

ESCAPE

VERONA (WITH HER TAN)

CURRENTS

FOR CRAIG

THE ARRIVAL OF LILLIAN EVE

MENAGE a TROIS

INTERVAL OF SIGHS

BAUBLES

COFFEE AND A MARLBORO

BEYOND COMMON WISDOM

YAWN OF THE DEAD

PUT THE X BACK IN XMAS

TIS THE SEASON . . . AGAIN AND AGAIN

CHRISTMAS CARD FOR A FRIEND

TRAVELLING LIGHT

MOVING

PLEADGE (I DON’T NEED NO STINKING PLEDGE )

THE TWIN DESTROYERS

MIDNIGHT IN THE BASEMENT OF THE AL-RASHID HOTEL

LADY OF DEMOCRACY

MIRROR MYOPIA

PERSPECTIVE ON MUSCLE

JUST THE FACTS

DOG KILLER

A NEWS ITEM

LOST TO THE MOMENT

DIGITAL/ANALOGUE DIALOGUE

OPEN WINDOWS

IRREDUCIBLE PRIMARIES

REAR ENDED AT BURNHAM AND RIVER OAKS DRIVE

NORTH PIER (92)

SOUTH HAVEN

JUAREZ (66)

TOO OLD TO BE ANGRY

AN ATHEIST’S GOSPEL

TO MY GRANDCHILDREN

WISH

UPON MY PASSING

For my wife Joyce,

who breathes life into my poetry,

and who breathes poetry into my life

MISSHAPEN IDENTITY

Someone else is living my life . . .

someone taller, leaner, someone

who is dating angelic film actresses

who hang on his piston-like arms.

He’s living in my house, too,

in South Beach and Malibu,

and throwing celebrity-laden parties

till the sun gropes its way overhead,

which is when he drives off

in my silver Mercedes SL 550 Roadster

to linger over a lazy breakfast

before jetting off to Cannes

to soak up the sun like a

sleek salamander asleep on the beach.

Which gives rise to the question:

Whose life am I living?

###

PEARL OF FRANCE

The perspiration rolled

along her spine, coming to rest

at the small of her back,

sitting there like a pearl

washed ashore on the

French Riviera

###

AN AFTERNOON WITH ERIC SATIE

To hear Trois Gymnopedies

   transports me to a Parisian café

   on a lustrous Sunday afternoon

      sometime in May

Perhaps it is

   the Foret Noir with wood beams

   bisecting the ceiling, or along

      rue Royale amongst the widows and artists

Cylinders of sunlight

   fall across the table

   like ruffles on a schoolgirl’s petticoat

      cups of espresso

belligerent and hot

   fuel our desultory conversations

   straining to be heard

      along the Champ Elysee

above the chattering

   of taxis and bicycles that provide

   a throbbing contrast to the

      sweet hum of a piano sonata

notes dripping

   like crystal raindrops on marble

   amidst curls of cigarette smoke

      and the chimerical kiss of absinthe

Women with Lautrec faces

   amble by in haute couture

   framed by a sunset awash

      with the tint of an ebullient Beaujolais

And when the music stops

   as