Gerry Locklin—In Memoriam: California Poets Part 9, Twelve Poems

Gerry Locklin (1941-2021)

December 22nd, 2025

California Poets: Part IX

Gerry Locklin

Twelve Poems

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Tributes by Clint Margrave, J.T. Whitehead, and Ron Koertge

A Selection of Gerry Locklin's Poetry

Chosen by Clint Margrave

my six-month old daughter

my six-month old daughter

must sleep in a strange crib tonight.

who can blame her for crying?

every bed i’ve ever slept in

has seemed strange.

pedagogy

in sixth grade they gave us a belgian nun.

she was just learning the language, and she often

had to ask the English word for something.

little things like doorknobs, blackboard, chalk.

we were a rotten and sadistic bunch.

we gloried in sabotage.

our previous teacher was now in r-wing of the local

hospital,

which is where you went when you couldn’t stop screaming.

one day sister bonita asked us what you call

an electric outlet—you know, the thing on the wall

that you plug the plug into.

we told her it was called a cunt.

she left the room to find the janitor, to explain

what it was of hers that needed fixing, what it was

exactly that she couldn’t fit the plug into.

she returned to class a tearful but a wiser woman.

which reminds me of a piece of profound advice

imparted to me by a young professor upon the occasion

of my going forth from graduate school:

“remember, locklin,” he said, his hand upon my tweedy

shoulder,

“in teaching you are always dealing with the criminal

mentality.”

The Walden/Woodstock Apartments

thoreau was right about the

majority of mankind leading lives

of quiet desperation.

the problem with my neighbors

is that they are not even

quiet about it.

The Last Round-Up

once in a while i wish there were a god,

mainly so that he could preside,

as vengefully as possible,

over a real lollapalooza of a last judgment.

it’s not that i consider my soul to be stainless.

hardly.

i’m quite aware of the commandments i have broken,

and the people, often loved ones,

i have hurt.

if there does prove to be a deity,

i indeed expect that i’ll be serving some hard time

for a good long sentence

if not (worst case scenario)

for eternity.

but it would be worth it just to see

the smug ones get their come-uppance,

not just the big criminals,

the serial killers, and the savings-and-loans crooks,

and the harry limes,

but all the petty bullshitters,

the shuck-n-jivers,

the slip-n-sliders,

all those who seem able to go through life

not only lying to everyone else

but even kidding themselves,

never experiencing the slightest self-doubt

or pang or remorse.

i really would love to see those fuckers

and fuckeresses

as they wake up from their complacent sleeps

to find themselves being stared down by

a tribunal of righteousness and wrath.

i’d also get a kick out of witnessing

the looks on the faces of those

who have presumed to put HIM in a dress.

you know, i never realized jonathan edwards and i

had so much in common.

David Hockney: My Bedroom

how neat, how english.

how purified of passion.

i realize that it deliberately states

i am not van gogh.

how true.

The Iceberg Theory

all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.

you'd think romaine was descended from

orpheus's laurel wreath,

you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional

benefits attributed to it by popeye,

not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of

verlaine and debussy.

they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage

just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.

I guess the problem is

it's just too common for them.

It doesn't matter that it tastes good,

has a satisfying crunchy texture,

holds its freshness

and has crevices for the dressing,

whereas the darker, leafier varieties

are often bitter, gritty, and flat.

It just isn't different enough and

it's too goddamn american.

of course a critic has to criticize;

a critic has to have something to say

perhaps that's why literary critics

purport to find interesting

so much contemporary poetry

that just bores the shit out of me.

at any rate, I really enjoy a salad

with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,

the more the merrier,

drenched in an Italian or roquefort dressing.

and the poems I enjoy are those I don't have

to pretend that I'm enjoying.

amedeo modigliani: seated nude with folded hands, 1918

his nudes so often

situate their hands upon

their laps, if clothed,

their genitals, if not.

this has an interesting

and paradoxical effect:

of modesty at war with masturbation.

i think the artist knew this,

and i think it turned him on.

i think subliminally and maybe overtly

that the models knew it too.

i think they all knew

i would like it.

at midnight

at midnight, i look up

from the gilberto sorrentino book

that i’ve been reading under flashlight

and i notice that the dipper and north star

have moved across the sky

and for the first time in my life

i feel the fact that i am in motion

that everything is,

and simultaneously for the first time in my life

i do not want to die,

i remember how sad for years it left my daughter

when her grandfather died,

and i don’t want to leave her with

a second sadness,

and for the first time in my life

i understand why anyone would want

to believe in reincarnation,

and would want to come back

to this world.

A Selection of Gerry Locklin's Poetry

Chosen by J.T. Whitehead

Found Poem

“Well,” Larry says,

I handed in my found poem.”

“Yeah?” I say

“Where did you find it?”

“POETRY of Chicago,” he says.

a guide to the cinema

chuck and i are sitting in the office

discussing movies

and ray wanders in

and chuck says, “you know that movie

that you told me i really ought to see”

and ray says “sure, the last wave.”

and chuck says, “well, i drove all the way

to huntington beach on a weeknight

on your recommendation

and i’m afraid i didn’t come away from it

with the same high opinion you expressed.

in fact, i thought it was pretty bad.”

and turning to the door, ray says,

“i didn’t think you’d like it.”

who took the bite out of the apple?

on the back cover

of the new yorker,

john and yoko are sitting up

in bed, crosslegged, holding

flowers and hawking computers.

the ad is captioned

“think different.”

i don’t have anything

against advertisements.

hemingway did them.

i’d do them if anyone asked

(hint, hint).

i hope my publisher will place

a whole shitload of them.

but i don’t talk about karma; 

i don’t pretend to be unconventional;

i wouldn’t marry yoko ono 

if she were the last piece of ass on earth

and i hope my ad reads

“think grammatically.”

I’ve Always Enjoyed Her Sense of Humor

She’s an old friend

And I don’t see her very often,

But she has a way of turning up

When I’m talking to a girl I’ve just met,

And she will invariably storm up to us

And confront me with, “where is the child support check?!”

Then turn on her heel and storm from the room,

Leaving me to make inadequate explanations.