Christopher Watkins

Christopher Watkins is a poet and songwriter. His poems are appearing or have appeared in The George Washington Review, Euphony, Talking River, Red Rock Review, and the anthology "In Our Own Words: A Generation Defining Itself" (MWE Press), among others.

As a songwriter, he has released five albums under the name Preacher Boy, and has received a gold record for his songwriting work with Grammy-Winning artist Eagle-Eye Cherry.

He was born in Iowa, and has since lived in Michigan, Italy, Washington, California, Ireland, Colorado, and New York, roughly in that order. He and his missus, painter Amy Marinelli, currently reside in the town of Port Jefferson, New York.

A Wild Flaw Amongst Us

Monday, June 11th, 2012

What can you think about a world
where a man builds a dungeon underneath his home
and traps his daughter there for nearly twenty years,
raping her repeatedly to the tune of seven children,
three of whom have never seen the sun?

We have bred our kind into aberration;
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too much medicine to keep the babies coming, cure the cancers,
keep the suicides casino online from trying;
where to buy steroidstoo much poison in the animals we glut on.
There is a wild flaw loose amongst us,
amongst our fragile gene pool.
How many in a hundred now
will dine upon their neighbors,
defecate upon a corpse of their own making?

Am I really saying
Josef Fritzl, Andrea Curry-Demus, Jeffrey Dahmer, Joseph Edward Duncan,
and all of the others come to us
because of Oscar …

Hell For Straight

Thursday, November 2nd, 2006

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I learned how the mind works

watching a stroke

dismantle my Grandpa.

If he wanted to know what day it was,

he'd say “Chris, tell me what…

…then his face would constrict,

his eyes would cross,

the skin on his neck would redden,

and spit would start to bubble

in the corners of his mouth

as he sputtered and stuttered

out words like weekyear…month

before arriving violently on DAY!

Just Not You. Not Yet…

Monday, October 2nd, 2006

Between our ninth

and tenth anniversaries,
we walk along the beach.

It's September.
I can tell by the depth of your eyes

that you're missing your grandmother.
She died in a fury of refusal,

a woman of faith,
fighting cancer's victory harder

than she ever fought its challenge.
I can feel you hating death

for being certain.
Just this morning, you stood up from breakfast,

the soft flesh of your face flushed and puffing,
to take your welling tears to the bathroom.

I rose to stop you, wrap you up,
felt you mutter into my shirt

that you cannot handle “this death thing.”
We keep walking,

with the water to our left.
Across the waves, there are cities

neither you nor I have been to.
term paperThey seem wilder than the water's IS the deposit. breaking tide,

so far from the immediacy of small cuts in our foot-skin,
so alive with the patina

of light contesting dark.
Did I feel you squeeze my hand?

I'm not sure if this is talk between lovers,
but I squeeze

back anyway, to let you …