Kristofer Collins: Pineapple Eddie (three poems)

Election Season

Sacred Heart of Jesus is closed
but on the other side of Liberty
the boys at Baby Loves Tacos
are stuffing burritos under blackout
conditions. This obscene heat
wraps lascivious legs around Bloomfield’s
frying bottom. Where the street bends
cold beer waits. Where the air is thickest
is where our brains turn to pudding.
Coagulated a rust red. This is not the color
if justice is what we expect. I feel
God’s thumb pushing down our heads
like dull tacks into this offended earth.
They keep Narcan behind the bar
so we don’t have to watch anyone OD
for too long. And for that we tip very well.
The sallow-faced summer didn’t choose
to be a preamble to another election.
It’s something we burn into its already raw
skin. It’s our revenge on the season.
Our latest stab at burning the damn thing down.

~~~


Washington Crossing

From here I see downtown clearly, a hedge
against fragmentation. A pledge to the future.
An alignment with the immortal. The historic
wash beneath me. I float in the immensity
of American time blood-colored as it is.
With feet wet in wool socks who could bear
such wooden declarations. Shoot the sun.
We are taught the eye of the enemy
is always upon us as we scurry in the soot
of our creations. Put a plaque on it,
someone said. So now we share in the privilege
of this skin. The cowardice of it really.
Here’s where Washington went into the drink
and almost died. Here’s where the country
claims absolution for all we have done since.

~~~



Pineapple Eddie

Here again I have run aground in the sand
and squinting sun of Erie, PA. The lake
is pretty good, I admit, if not great
and my feet steam and smoke
as I cross to the water’s weedy edge
to scoop up one child or another.
The reclining slab of ink and red meat
on the blanket to our right has many harsh
incredulous words for the “anti-gun crowd”
and I worry how much more heat
his exposed and sizzling brain can take.
Settle down, man, settle down. Watch
the water and the light contorting across it
and the osprey circling
lazy as a stopped drain while our children
poke at dead fish and sand toads with short sticks.
My son gathers broken snail shells while my daughter
rolls in the surf. Her smiling mouth burping out
primordial muck. Later at the restaurant
our children are stunned to find silverware
wrapped in paper napkins. What is this, they exclaim.
It’s the very definition of fancy. My wife and I
drink sweet beers and cool our bodies
in the lapping AC. We try to love each other
from opposite sides of this booth. Our kids
jumbled and jangling between us. We probably
over-praise the meal, but for the moment
it really is wonderful to eat the fried chicken
and plantains. The walls are down and the swell
of love speckled in rough sandy surf
is all over us—our toes and ears, ringing
our sunburnt necks, way the hell up our asses.
Each of us glad for it. Glad for each other.
Momentarily safe from the rest of this
cracked and rage-filled country
here in Pineapple Eddie.

~~~~~

Copyright 2025 Kristofer Collins

Kristofer Collins is a writer living in Pittsburgh, PA. He is the Books Editor for Pittsburgh Magazine and co-curates the long-running Hemingway’s Summer Poetry Series with Joan Bauer. Collins’s many books include King Everything (Six Gallery Press, 2006).