Clint Margrave: Toad dies and goes to heaven

 in memory of Gerald Locklin (1941–2021)

Nobody is more surprised than he is.

First of all, Toad doesn’t believe in heaven,

and secondly, even if he did,

he never expected to visit.

In fact, he’s minorly disappointed.

Has he failed to achieve the properly

debauched life he so often courted?

But the food tastes good.

And you can drink all the frothy beer you want

and never have to go the bathroom.

The salads are made just the way he likes them too,

with lots of crunchy iceberg lettuce

and a good Roquefort dressing.

(But who is he kidding?

Nobody eats salads here.)

At least there aren’t any white clouds,

or saints with haloes,

just a dive bar with a few pretty angels.

They even have a poetry night!

And though the audience is dead

and the open mic literally goes on forever,

this time it isn’t annoying,

but filled with names like Dante and Homer

and Shakespeare and Szymborska …

“Hello Toad,” says his old pal Bukowski,

who approaches the bar and pulls up a stool.

“Good to see you again, Hank,” says Toad,

as they clink their glasses and take a drink,

not to their health, but ours.

Clint Margrave: The famous atheist

had come to town to debate the afterlife.

At the reception following,
my wife and I watched a mob of disciples
rush up to him,
young men and women
in their thirties,
thrilled to be in the presence
of the great man.

Charismatic and as charming
as he’d always been on television,
the Famous Atheist
cracked jokes
about the end of the world,
compared god to Kim Jong Il,
made people laugh,
while reminding them
how religion still poisoned
everything.

As more and more followers
descended on him,
asking for autographs,
pressing copies of his best-selling
book into his famous hands,
telling unsolicited tales of their own
conversion,
giving praise to the man
who had saved them,

the Famous Atheist,
growing tired of their worshipping
his every gesture,
unintentionally
threw up his hands,
and they all bowed.

Clint Margrave: To the Student Who Asked Why He Earned a ‘C’ on an Essay about Love

Because love has its own grammar,
its own sentences,
some that run-on too long,
others just fragments.
It uses a language
not always appropriate
or too informal,
and often lacks clarity.

Love is punctuated all wrong,
changes tenses abruptly,
relies heavily
on the first person,
can be redundant,
awkward,
full of unnecessary repetition.

Every word is compounded.
Every phrase, transitional.

Love doesn’t always know the difference
between lie and lay,
its introductions sometimes
lack a well-developed thesis,
its claims go unfounded,
its ad-hominem attacks
call in question
its authority.

With a style that’s inconsistent,
a voice either too critical
or too passive,
love is a rough draft
in constant need of revision,
whose conclusion
rarely gives any sense
of closure,
or reveals the lingering
possibilities of a topic
that always expects high praise,
and more often than not
fails to be anything
but average.