Poets Do Pop
{An Umbrella Special Feature}

Chris Bullard

work as an administrative law judge with the federal government.

He has been published in Nimrod, Pleiades, Atlanta Review and other literary magazines.

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Million Dollar Movie

My mother parked me throughout the Sixties
Nose-length to TV’s cowboy heroes,
Who rode in buckskins through rains of arrows
Escorting dry schoolmarms to quilting bees;
But I stayed up late for those comedies
Set in New York bars with grand pianos
Where swells in white tie and tails plied Eros
With frothy cocktails, or smart Martinis.
I had no use for a hometown honey.
I thirsted for Café Society
And icy blondes, who’d snub me until
Intoxicated on my repartee
And highballs served in deco-ish crystal,
They fell for me like I was old money.


Godzilla Agonistes

I’ve got acetylene up my nostrils and enough uranium in my brain that it crackles like a Geiger counter, so it doesn’t take a lot to set me off. When Monster Island gets to be too much and the dinosaurs start butting heads, I might have to go snack on the fishing fleet and barbeque the sushi in their nets, or stomp down some real estate in the Ginza and take a swing at the salary men. So what if the Tank Police haul me in, and I have to sleep it off in a lead-lined aquarium? When they give me one phone call, I can ring up Mothra to raise bail. Sure, she’ll tell me I'm trouble, but, after she blows off some steam, she’ll want to take me back to her apartment and light up a stick of incense. She’ll slip into her dragon kimono and make me gunpowder tea with a whisk, or, if we go Western, a martini. I always try to set off some sparks by reciting from my latest haiku: something, something, the innocence of cranes or is it the wild fragrance of the moon? She doesn’t think it makes me needy because I want to flatten Japan, and when she takes me to her futon and fans her wings above my dorsal plates, we kiss, and it’s the Bomb going off on Bikini.