Episode 123: The Catholic Episode

Episode 123: The Catholic Episode   Dear Slushies, we have a confession. We love being close readers as much as we love being close listeners. And if you are a fan of this podcast, we know the same is true for you. We’re delighted to consider Charlie Peck’s poems “Cowboy Dreams” and “Bully in the Trees” in this episode. We’re talking about unreliable narrators, homeric epithets, dramatic enjambments, and the difference between small “c” catholicism and capital “C” Catholicism. Confession and exultation, Slushies! Floating signifiers and The Sopranos. It’s a doozy! We hope you love listening in as much as we loved considering Charlie Peck’s poems for PBQ.    (Oh, and we excitedly celebrate Jason’s fifth collection launching in April, Portrait of Icarus as a Country on Fire!)   At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Jason Schneiderman, Samanatha Neugebauer   Charlie Peck is from Omaha, Nebraska and received his MFA from Purdue University. His poetry has appeared previously in Cincinnati Review, Ninth Letter, Massachusetts Review, and Best New Poets 2019, among others. His first collection, World’s Largest Ball of Paint, is the winner of the 2022 St. Lawrence Book Award from Black Lawrence Press and is forthcoming April 2024.   Twitter: @chip_nutter   Cowboy Dreams   Winedrunk along the river on a Tuesday, boy howdy, my life. I ignore another call from my mother because today  is about the matted grass and the skipping trout. When my brother jumps companies after the Christmas bonus, it’s Ruthless. When I pillage the family silver to slick forty bucks at a pawn shop,  It’s time you start thinking about recovery. Instinct makes me wreck anyone who comes  too close. You ever snapped a dog’s stick just to watch his ears drop? I’m Catholic with how quick I loose my tongue to confess,  my guilt just a frequency my ears quit hearing.  One snowy May in the Colorado mountains, I stripped  to my underwear and raised my pack to wade the glacial river. Dried by a fire with a pot of beans. All night I dreamt of my lasso and revolver, riding the hot-blooded horse alone across the plains, no one in sight to hurt. Bully in the Trees   Indiana cornfields leave so much     to be desired, and lately I’ve desired nothing   but clean sheets and pretzel bread. For a decade    I was ruthless, took whatever I wanted:   last donut in the office breakroom, merged    lanes out of turn. I stole my roommate’s    change jar, sat on the floor of a Wells Fargo    rolling quarters to buy an eighth. In this new year,   I promise I’ll stop being the loudest in the room    like a bear ravaging a campsite just to be the bully   in the trees. For so long I thought my cruelty    was the world’s fault, my stubbed toe blamed   on the coffee table’s leg, not my stumbling in the dark.    Throwing every fish back to the river    doesn’t forgive the hooked hole I caused.    Once, I undressed a woman in the giraffe enclosure,   but maybe that was a Soprano’s episode. Once,    my life was so ordinary I replaced it   with the things I saw on television. I ate fifty    hard-boiled eggs. I robbed the bank and screamed   Attica! I stood in the trees cuffing the Nebraska    suburb and watched my mother set the table   through the window. A porcelain plate at each chair.    My ordinary life stranged by the window frame.   If I fall asleep before the credits, let me dream the rest.    My pockets are empty, but the metal detector still shrieks.