Collateral Damage Report (Selected Treats)

The Collateral Damage Report (Special Treats) is a collection of poems by award-winning poet and author Michael Pollick. Individual pieces have been published in such literary magazines as The Iconoclast, Midwest Poetry Review, MOSAIC, Miller's Pond, and the political poetry anthology Will Work For Peace. Animated versions of these poems can also be viewed at the author's LordoftheGeeks YouTube channel.

This collection addresses subject matter from war to love, observation to remembrance. Some are actually based on true events in the author's life, while others have a more universal theme. A few even seem closer to microshort fiction than poetry. This collection should appeal to those readers who may have already sworn off poetry as inaccessible or too esoteric. Many readers comment on the accessibility and everyman appeal of these pieces, and the author hopes that future readers come away with similar opinions.

MAKEBELIEVE BALLROOM

and when all that remains of
our dimestore dances are scuffs
on aching linoleum,
I shall consider you carefully,
and know that we were gods once.

this was how the rockefellers
played it, all hot and close
enough to the bones;
we blew eight to the bar,
eight to the bar,
on blistered rugs and buckling
storeroom floors.

and you were all fierce reds
and polished whites,
clapping and surging with
the pulses of Dorsey,
whirling and crackling with
the promises of Miller,
turning and wailing with
the heat of the vacuums.

Today, I played the Dorsey
once more,
and as the needle danced
back and forth
on only a paper moon
only a paper moon
only a paper moon,
I heard the creaking
of the storeroom
boards, and for one
dying moment
you and I were spooning,
alone and invincible,
in the dust of
our makebelieve ballroom.


CLEFT FOR ME

Four small whispers can now leave rehearsal,
the last cigarette has been ground to ashes.

It was once important for us to kill some Negroes,
no matter how many times they claimed to fear God—
no matter how pretty their dime store dresses were—
no matter how late they were for choir practice.

In the whole of Birmingham, 1963,
freedom smelled a lot like gunpowder residue
on the hands of Bobby Frank Cherry.

Four shadows from another mangled storm shelter
can now share Cokes on hot summer revivals
and find Sister Henrietta's eyeglasses for her.

While I draw this
fleeting breath,
When my eyes
shall close in
death,
I shall fly
to worlds unknown,
And behold thee
on thy throne.

Now is the day four little singers
found their way back
to the 16th Street Baptist church,

after getting lost in another man's smoke.