God’s Bicycle

A few notes about the “new” book. God’s Bicycle contains about 60 pages of new poems along with selections from my first three collections and older uncollected work chosen and sequenced thematically for how the individual poems fit into an overall arc. So, more any other collection of mine, this is “my” book. It’s available at amazon and through the publisher in both paperback and kindle editions. Over the next few months, I’ll be posting selections from the book at this page.

To Purchase At Amazon

Press Release

Facebook Page

Here’s the publisher’s description:

In God’s Bicycle, Peckham offers a spiritual road mix for 21st-century America. In poems that travel from the heartland through Appalachia to New England, he sings a song crafted from his own strange brew of off-kilter, irreverent psalms, prayers, hymns, aubades, and elegies in praise and homage to a fragmented but beautiful landscape and people. Drawing as much from rockabilly as Whitman, these poems are always intense and often exuberant, even in their struggle for the kind of hope that can “rise green and leafy from a bitter soil.”

God’s Bicycle

God is peddling a bicycle down
Highway 32, traveling west toward
Cincinnati against traffic (of course).
The bicycle is red—one of the sit-down,
layback types with three wheels and
a basket on the front filled with groceries:
local eggs, milk, cheese, some bacon
(He hasn’t been Kosher in years). A Bengals
pennant blows from the back (Who
Knew?!). He looks much like you’d expect
—a fat, elderly, white guy with a soot-stained
beard, and the slightly crazed and haggard look

of the father of many (many) children when
the children figure out he loves them
and that really, there is little he can do—
a time-out here. A spanking there.
Even if the burning pit is real, he will not
drop them. So they fight and bicker,
pull at his ears, laugh at shouts and idle
threats, beat the dog, masturbate on
the toilet, in the closet, in the basement,
on his favorite couch when he’s at work

and leave the stains for him to clean.
Saying, I know what you’ve been up to
I’m everywhere
does nothing (since
the Puritans) but make them exhibitionists
or hypocrites, at best, voyeurs. And what
did all that watching do to him at last
but make his eyes sore. So he leans back
in his pajama pants and flannels, peddling
his bicycle. His chin raised skyward so
he can’t see into the windows, can’t
meet the hungry stares, and it is
a miracle how he avoids collisions

(mostly) and keeps the world in orbit.
There is enough to do (Get out
of the way you crazy old)
, switching
gears from high to low, muttering,
as he goes, I love you all I love
you I love you I love you all I
love you

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