Poetry by Brian Builta

     Vincent Parsons CC




Teetertotter


You may not believe in God
because you’ve had to tiptoe
through too many catastrophes
and Jesus on the cross
hasn’t cut it, and at the light
there’s Jammin’ Jay’s Magical Karaoke
written on a van, which seems 
closer to reality, something impervious to sadness
without much thought, 
and is right in front of you!
No need to wonder where your gallows stand.
You may secretly like your fingers licked 
but think that’s stupid so you never ask,
just poo poo politics as a defense mechanism, 
while chances at cheap and real love
drive off in a Grand Marquis.
When your bobber bounces, don’t yank too soon.
Set your line better than that.
Let your struggles soothe someone else’s weary legs, 
let those twisted knickers convince you to rest. 
You may hurl your hatred at wall after wall,
feel like kicking a kitten and biting a baby
and then feel a tiny tug of joy
when the stray makes it across the street
because people stopped, left or right wing.
Nouns and verbs are like facts,
not enough to get you to heaven.
Which is why God is in heaven and you are here. 
Unlike this poem, let your words be few.
Here, hold my hand.
No need to totter alone. 

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Brian Builta lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His work has been published in North of Oxford, Hole in the Head Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, New Ohio Review, TriQuarterly and 2River View among others. He is the author of A Thursday in June (2024), a collection of poems about his son’s suicide, and more of his poetry can be found at brianbuilta.com.
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