Poetry by Kyle Rackley

            ​Christian Collins CC



Echoes

1

I slipped on a patch of ice.
Julie left me for her dealer,
and I’d never use meth.
I stay away from hard stuff

but Julie left me for her dealer
I need money and a jump.
I stay away from hard stuff
weather’s brutal; I sleep in my car

I need money and a jump.
I lost weight because I’m homeless
weather’s brutal; I sleep in my car
Teresa says Sapp Bros. gives free showers

I lost weight and now I’m homeless
I could sleep on Aaron’s couch for a dick pic
Teresa says Sapp Bros. gives free showers,
but she may be a prostitute.

I could sleep on Aaron’s couch for a dick pic
Julie fucks for drugs and I pray for her,
but she may be a prostitute.
I’d never give a handy for smack.

Julie fucks for drugs and I pray for her,
I’ve stolen copper from houses
but I’d never give a handy for smack.
I ran over a dog and sold its meat as venison.

I’ve stolen copper from houses,
so believe that I’m not lying to you, sis, I admit
that I ran over a dog and sold its meat as venison.
The Jerky Station might be selling some.

I swear that I’m not lying to you, sis.
I’m shaking because I haven’t had my coffee.
The Jerky Station might be selling some.
That may be why I lost some teeth.

I’m shaking because I haven’t had my coffee.
I slipped on a patch of ice
that may be why I lost some teeth,
and I’d never use meth.




2

Carey stands behind the counter,
watches the homeless trade hand jobs
for money and trip the power cosmic
where he smiles with a friendly greet,

sharing mints and a bouncer
who doles out fists to mobs,
breaking them down to subatomic
lollipops that taste of dog meat

and Carey doesn’t use taxonomic 
means to separate truckers with what they eat 




3

Vince hears the call and leaps into a blackhole, it urges him to stay at the Council Bluffs Sapp Bros. station where showers on the second floor come free with leftover water from truckers after hand jobs and a promise to not say a word to cashiers, who promise to guard registers from junkies and blackholes. Water calms the shakes of winter. Water from truckers drown wind shrieks. Drown hopes. Drown minds when he bluffs his family. A meal or two before he’s free to trade a hand job for a shower. Silence. No need for family when a shower is all one needs to promise calm winds and drown winter shakes; free oneself with silence. A blackhole can be beautiful, and Vince sings in cosmic bluff supernova against winter shakes and a trucker’s caress. No family to call, only truckers listen in stalls, waiting for showers and Vince reaches supernova in the bluffs. He lies to family and promises he won’t steal from registers. He’s whole and plans to stay pinprick free. He lies and says he won’t steal free registers that cashiers guard from junkies and truckers. Shun the future. His hole shrieks, demands to be fed pinpricks and showers to forget second floor hand jobs and promises of listening to the quiet of the Council Bluffs Sapp Bros. showerhead as it erodes the bluffs of Vince’s body and he frees himself of family and of a past where he promised to rid himself of hand jobs for truckers in exchange for a few bucks and a shower, so he can sing supernova and feed himself to a blackhole.

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Kyle Rackley is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. They live where the Platte and Missouri Rivers meet with their wife and kids. They hold a BFA in creative writing from the University of Nebraska at Omaha, and their work has appeared in Menacing Hedge, Spank the Carp, The Bookends Review, Danse Macabre, and other journals and anthologies.

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