ITCH
he licks
the superego
wounds
wondering
what his seed
tastes like,
some salty drops
sticky like want,
rolling in tongues
over the barely
fallow bed,
he whispers
to the rough
wooliness
of her words,
are your prickly-
pains
just for me,
or anybody?
Fucking the smell
of the blanket he groans,
shallow bitch,
left him blue-balled
and itching.
TEACHER
I fuck a first grade teacher,
because
if a first grade teacher's
apple pie smile, butter cream hands
and need to care for the infantile
can't make me feel good about myself,
who the fuck can?
davidoprava.com
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Ballad of a Rich Man by Tim Murray
If you stay up late enough
(say 4am)
You'll know the answer to everything
Yes
Everything
Because (it seems) the Western mind
Is trained to believe
That knowledge is a mere
Compendium of memorized
Tidbits, dates, names
With the occasional anecdote
Tossed in for a bit of intellectual spice
That being said
Your noggin full of
Categorized Pitfall scores
From Intellivision II tournaments
Should come in handy
In the event that you
Find yourself strolling along
The gray October sidewalks
Of Indiana where
You are sure to come across
A small cigarette smoke filled bakery
Named Sue's
At which time you'll be unable to fight the
Urge to order
A large slice of double chocolate cake
Simply because it is
A large slice of double chocolate cake
And the lady behind the counter
Will seem annoyed that
You actually wish to purchase something
But thru her grimace
She will neatly package
Your freshly baked
Slice of double chocolate cake
In a nifty little plastic container
And she'll slip it into a
Convenient brown paper sack
And she'll drop your
13 cents change
And receipt in behind it
And the belt of
Real live Reindeer bells tied
To the door handle
Will clang and jangle
As you exit
Returning to the
Leafy brown afternoon
One large slice of
Double chocolate cake
Richer
In the Earth
Tim Murray, b. 1977, is a lifelong resident of Northwest Indiana. His poetry blog can be found at www.myspace.com/kidmonk
(say 4am)
You'll know the answer to everything
Yes
Everything
Because (it seems) the Western mind
Is trained to believe
That knowledge is a mere
Compendium of memorized
Tidbits, dates, names
With the occasional anecdote
Tossed in for a bit of intellectual spice
That being said
Your noggin full of
Categorized Pitfall scores
From Intellivision II tournaments
Should come in handy
In the event that you
Find yourself strolling along
The gray October sidewalks
Of Indiana where
You are sure to come across
A small cigarette smoke filled bakery
Named Sue's
At which time you'll be unable to fight the
Urge to order
A large slice of double chocolate cake
Simply because it is
A large slice of double chocolate cake
And the lady behind the counter
Will seem annoyed that
You actually wish to purchase something
But thru her grimace
She will neatly package
Your freshly baked
Slice of double chocolate cake
In a nifty little plastic container
And she'll slip it into a
Convenient brown paper sack
And she'll drop your
13 cents change
And receipt in behind it
And the belt of
Real live Reindeer bells tied
To the door handle
Will clang and jangle
As you exit
Returning to the
Leafy brown afternoon
One large slice of
Double chocolate cake
Richer
In the Earth
Tim Murray, b. 1977, is a lifelong resident of Northwest Indiana. His poetry blog can be found at www.myspace.com/kidmonk
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Alleys are the Footnotes of the Avenues by Peter Anderson
The old man paused, his brimming shopping cart rattling to a stop. A window just above stood a few inches open, the apartment’s inhabitants tentatively seeking spring’s first warm wisps of breeze. The man himself had more than enough breezes, along with the bitter winds of the preceding winter just passed, none of it impeded by any window’s barrier.
The long alley he had traversed, veering slowly side to side to peek into trash cans and dumpsters for things of interest and maybe of value, ended in a T which he followed toward the street. There was no dumpster to be picked through here - nicer buildings kept their trash in chain-linked pens to discourage men like him from lingering, silently imploring him to take his business elsewhere.
He stopped, not ready to return to the street. Low sounds emanating from the window drew his attention, but he listened with eyes cast downward, the pose of a tired man merely pausing to rest. He knew that looking up at the window might mark him as a peeper, drawing the ire of neighbors and bringing the police.
He already had enough hassles in his humble life without bringing another upon himself.
~
The television murmured, excited putdowns and canned laughter occasionally rising through the living room’s slumbering lull. Bluish light flickered through the shadows, illuminating a middle-aged man who slumped in an easy chair, stockinged feet propped up, a half-empty highball glass within his reach. He dozed, having lost interest in the sitcom’s inanities, its forced mirth.
Before sleep came the old familiar words eased through his mind, the words of the essay he had pondered for so long, the treatise which would finally put television, and everything it represented about our culture, in its place. Down where it belonged, far down.
The medium numbs the senses, lulling us into dull complacency, cheapening our discourse down to a blather of catchphrases. Laugh tracks have taught us how to respond—uproariously at the more outrageous stunts, chucklingly at rare instances of subtlety. But laugh tracks teach us nothing about how to respond to seriousness, to sadness, and thus we have become immune, no longer caring, no longer sympathizing. If we can’t laugh we don’t respond at all. We have become disconnected from the world outside…
But the words, so often thought but still unwritten, soon gave way to the whiskey’s strength. He slid into heavy-lidded torpor, then finally into sleep. The words would remain unwritten for another day, another month, year, perhaps forever.
~
Outside the window, the sounds from within no longer held the old man’s interest. He reached into his cart, again securing a bag of soda cans, obsessively tightening the handles as he had done repeatedly throughout the long clockless day. Satisfied, he grunted quietly and leaned into the shopping cart, moving slowly toward the street.
As he cleared the building he felt a jolt of wind on his weathered face, the air turning colder as night fell steadily around him.
Peter Anderson's stories have been published in many fine venues besides this one, including Storyglossia, THE2NDHAND, Wheelhouse and RAGAD. He also has three novels-in-progress that may or may not ever be finished, depending on his whims, and a completed story chapbook that is desperately in need of a home. He lives in Joliet, Illinois, with his lovely wife Julie, charming daughter Madeleine and two literature-averse cats.
The long alley he had traversed, veering slowly side to side to peek into trash cans and dumpsters for things of interest and maybe of value, ended in a T which he followed toward the street. There was no dumpster to be picked through here - nicer buildings kept their trash in chain-linked pens to discourage men like him from lingering, silently imploring him to take his business elsewhere.
He stopped, not ready to return to the street. Low sounds emanating from the window drew his attention, but he listened with eyes cast downward, the pose of a tired man merely pausing to rest. He knew that looking up at the window might mark him as a peeper, drawing the ire of neighbors and bringing the police.
He already had enough hassles in his humble life without bringing another upon himself.
~
The television murmured, excited putdowns and canned laughter occasionally rising through the living room’s slumbering lull. Bluish light flickered through the shadows, illuminating a middle-aged man who slumped in an easy chair, stockinged feet propped up, a half-empty highball glass within his reach. He dozed, having lost interest in the sitcom’s inanities, its forced mirth.
Before sleep came the old familiar words eased through his mind, the words of the essay he had pondered for so long, the treatise which would finally put television, and everything it represented about our culture, in its place. Down where it belonged, far down.
The medium numbs the senses, lulling us into dull complacency, cheapening our discourse down to a blather of catchphrases. Laugh tracks have taught us how to respond—uproariously at the more outrageous stunts, chucklingly at rare instances of subtlety. But laugh tracks teach us nothing about how to respond to seriousness, to sadness, and thus we have become immune, no longer caring, no longer sympathizing. If we can’t laugh we don’t respond at all. We have become disconnected from the world outside…
But the words, so often thought but still unwritten, soon gave way to the whiskey’s strength. He slid into heavy-lidded torpor, then finally into sleep. The words would remain unwritten for another day, another month, year, perhaps forever.
~
Outside the window, the sounds from within no longer held the old man’s interest. He reached into his cart, again securing a bag of soda cans, obsessively tightening the handles as he had done repeatedly throughout the long clockless day. Satisfied, he grunted quietly and leaned into the shopping cart, moving slowly toward the street.
As he cleared the building he felt a jolt of wind on his weathered face, the air turning colder as night fell steadily around him.
Peter Anderson's stories have been published in many fine venues besides this one, including Storyglossia, THE2NDHAND, Wheelhouse and RAGAD. He also has three novels-in-progress that may or may not ever be finished, depending on his whims, and a completed story chapbook that is desperately in need of a home. He lives in Joliet, Illinois, with his lovely wife Julie, charming daughter Madeleine and two literature-averse cats.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Revival, reunion when I think of you by Audrey Victoria
I drop down fifty flights of stairs and the moon beckons me nowhere except
where a sight-seeing tourist from the inside is exploiting my garnered limp.
His gullet is adorned with crumpled skin and mole colored jewels.
Inside my nose is stinging and I take it as a sign that the
scorpion has just crawled inside. And my tongue will speak words
of models drawing out my past vision of vernacular suicide.
I crawl to the coffee shop and order shots of espresso until my chest explodes.
I wait for you by the front window but you're nowhere to be seen.
I assume it's because I gained weight again and I feel fat again.
Since I quit mind surfing I don't ride as smooth anymore.
I must confess, back when abyssinian hands stroked my laden back
I used to mind fuck you in the alley and you didn't know it.
Limping and leaving, my heart stops and I am clutched to a street light.
The fat gullet trumpet vine has wrapped around my bronchial tubes again.
Manipulation is a tired tactic and I prefer pure fucking instead
I will wait for you half past five next weekend if I am not dead by then
I will merge into you but not frighten you.
I will sing to you gently but there will be no song even if you ask for one.
There will be no moment for images because you will be blindfolded
I will leave you one foot to find in the garbage. Most importantly
I don't know how to love. It's your crumbled clutch, displacement
with boring sentiment. Yeah, it's that role I play.
Inside I know that flash you want of that woman standing sprawled
dripping clean with wet and glitter all over your mommy's blanket.
What a coward you've become. God, all gracious, the women
The women just want to screw you all over. The vision of their
Robert Plant Fantasy. Go on, bro, grunt and give them your disease.
My skin is still smooth and I still flutter like a pixie
all over your jewels, stealing them. The yawn of the guitar still runs down my leg
and as the new moon raises the energy depletes from your
soul merging with mine accordingly.
Most likely you will have a nightmare about me tonight.
a hallway will rise up in magenta and run like a trumpet vine,
run from your toes to your abdomen to down your trachea
where then you will blossom orange, finally spreading
something half beautiful, even if you're still a weed.
where a sight-seeing tourist from the inside is exploiting my garnered limp.
His gullet is adorned with crumpled skin and mole colored jewels.
Inside my nose is stinging and I take it as a sign that the
scorpion has just crawled inside. And my tongue will speak words
of models drawing out my past vision of vernacular suicide.
I crawl to the coffee shop and order shots of espresso until my chest explodes.
I wait for you by the front window but you're nowhere to be seen.
I assume it's because I gained weight again and I feel fat again.
Since I quit mind surfing I don't ride as smooth anymore.
I must confess, back when abyssinian hands stroked my laden back
I used to mind fuck you in the alley and you didn't know it.
Limping and leaving, my heart stops and I am clutched to a street light.
The fat gullet trumpet vine has wrapped around my bronchial tubes again.
Manipulation is a tired tactic and I prefer pure fucking instead
I will wait for you half past five next weekend if I am not dead by then
I will merge into you but not frighten you.
I will sing to you gently but there will be no song even if you ask for one.
There will be no moment for images because you will be blindfolded
I will leave you one foot to find in the garbage. Most importantly
I don't know how to love. It's your crumbled clutch, displacement
with boring sentiment. Yeah, it's that role I play.
Inside I know that flash you want of that woman standing sprawled
dripping clean with wet and glitter all over your mommy's blanket.
What a coward you've become. God, all gracious, the women
The women just want to screw you all over. The vision of their
Robert Plant Fantasy. Go on, bro, grunt and give them your disease.
My skin is still smooth and I still flutter like a pixie
all over your jewels, stealing them. The yawn of the guitar still runs down my leg
and as the new moon raises the energy depletes from your
soul merging with mine accordingly.
Most likely you will have a nightmare about me tonight.
a hallway will rise up in magenta and run like a trumpet vine,
run from your toes to your abdomen to down your trachea
where then you will blossom orange, finally spreading
something half beautiful, even if you're still a weed.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Featured Writer: Scot Young Day 3
covered in dust waiting for rain
this old truck tucked
just into the woods
off a dirt road
cedar growing
through its skeleton
used to haul
people
wood
field dressed deer
during season or not
sometimes moonshine
up and down these
ozark roads paved
in mud and chert
old man penley
left it here one day
got pissed off
cause it wouldn't
pull the hill
loaded full of wood
backed off in trees
and just said
fuckit
came back a half
dozen times
stripped it clean
nothing left now
but a speedometer
one chrome bumper
just sits
permantly parked
sometimes a summer
home for roadrunners
but always rusting
a shell of the 50s
neighbors pass by
occasionally
nod toward the truck
and say
that penley
he was a crazy
sonofabitch
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Featured Writer: Scot Young Day 2
hey jude
most everybody
had a shitty childhood
not that every minute
was a fucking nightmare
but the shit seems to stand out
stays fresh and
rubs off on your clothes
when you walk
too close to yesterday
i'd say you wear it well
like a yellow star
pinned to that dirty shirt
so others can
pick you out
tomorrow
bribe the guards
with what you got
to avoid the showers
because the smell
of shit is still better
than standing in line
______________________________
bar time
been watching her for an hour
other end of the bar
stripper tits
blouse tied underneath
i caught her looking
bedroom eye lashes
like pulling down
the shades
guy walks in
buys her a drink
sits down
i moved closer
she lit a cigarette
told the new guy
through a cloud of smoke
that the lousy
sonofabitch she had last
night couldn't keep up
she wanted a man
to go all night
knowwhatimsayin
who wasn't afraid to give
a woman what she wants
knowwhatimsayin
holding a full beer
he looked over at me
I shrugged
looked at the clock
knowing
it was still early
and i was closest
to the door…
__________________________
28 days of kama sutra
1972
teenage car sex
under a cheesy moon
eight track plays
croce low
love song
sets the mood
top down to give
us more room
you borrowed
yr sister's
kama sutra
had 20 minutes
before the porch light
came on
we were on day 1
I prayed for 27
more just like
this one
most everybody
had a shitty childhood
not that every minute
was a fucking nightmare
but the shit seems to stand out
stays fresh and
rubs off on your clothes
when you walk
too close to yesterday
i'd say you wear it well
like a yellow star
pinned to that dirty shirt
so others can
pick you out
tomorrow
bribe the guards
with what you got
to avoid the showers
because the smell
of shit is still better
than standing in line
______________________________
bar time
been watching her for an hour
other end of the bar
stripper tits
blouse tied underneath
i caught her looking
bedroom eye lashes
like pulling down
the shades
guy walks in
buys her a drink
sits down
i moved closer
she lit a cigarette
told the new guy
through a cloud of smoke
that the lousy
sonofabitch she had last
night couldn't keep up
she wanted a man
to go all night
knowwhatimsayin
who wasn't afraid to give
a woman what she wants
knowwhatimsayin
holding a full beer
he looked over at me
I shrugged
looked at the clock
knowing
it was still early
and i was closest
to the door…
__________________________
28 days of kama sutra
1972
teenage car sex
under a cheesy moon
eight track plays
croce low
love song
sets the mood
top down to give
us more room
you borrowed
yr sister's
kama sutra
had 20 minutes
before the porch light
came on
we were on day 1
I prayed for 27
more just like
this one
Friday, December 12, 2008
Featured Writer: Scot Young Day 1
The Early Years
In 1954
my father bought
mom a new pink &
white dodge
she loved that car
so much she painted
the house to match
the mills brothers sang
you're nobody til
somebody loves you
that night
I was conceived
after a couple
of cans of heidl brau
and for a brief
moment
all was right
with the world
_________________________________
Before Girls
we would push our bikes up
the steep hills
then zoom down zig- zagging
like daredevils
wind in our face
drying out the butchwax
made to wear by dad
until we couldn't roll any farther
like a thousand screaming locusts
the maris mantle and mays
rookie cards clothes-pinned
to our spokes turning
our schwinns into
wannabe triumphs
old man smith would yell
as we flew by
you little dumb asses
was all we could make out
for that summer we were
the wild ones spitting
gnats from our teeth
_______________________________
First Day of Girls
in seventh grade
first hour I saw
carmela occhipinti
big itailian smile
ta-tas to match
orange mini dress
off-white pokla-dot s
are there bombshells
at 13?
never saw this
in grammar school--
those chocolate eyes
cut right to the center
of a 7th grade
boy's heart
nothing else mattered
before or after
that polka dot image
was burned into this
kid's brain
testosterone &
awkwardness
raced to every corner
of my body
as I stumbled
into the chair beside her
--slouched in jeans
white t-shirt
checked her out
through the corner
of my eye
checking me out
through the corner
of hers
today I learned
on some reunion site
she had died--
breast cancer
of all damn things
it made me sad
I hoped her life
was good
as I saw her
in that mini dress
and remembered
how many times
I dropped my pencil
In another life Scot Young used to be a construction worker but for the last 19 years he has been paid to hang out with kids. He started writing poems again after a 30 year absence and has published one or two. He may be the only school principal in America to have all of Christopher Robin's books and occasionaly teaches a poetry class to the Breakfast Club. He once sang with Kenny Loggins and wrestler Dirty Dick Murdoch, but mainly he just puts bread on the table.
Stop by to see more from Scot on Saturday and Sunday.
Shoots and Vines Compost: Scot Young
In 1954
my father bought
mom a new pink &
white dodge
she loved that car
so much she painted
the house to match
the mills brothers sang
you're nobody til
somebody loves you
that night
I was conceived
after a couple
of cans of heidl brau
and for a brief
moment
all was right
with the world
_________________________________
Before Girls
we would push our bikes up
the steep hills
then zoom down zig- zagging
like daredevils
wind in our face
drying out the butchwax
made to wear by dad
until we couldn't roll any farther
like a thousand screaming locusts
the maris mantle and mays
rookie cards clothes-pinned
to our spokes turning
our schwinns into
wannabe triumphs
old man smith would yell
as we flew by
you little dumb asses
was all we could make out
for that summer we were
the wild ones spitting
gnats from our teeth
_______________________________
First Day of Girls
in seventh grade
first hour I saw
carmela occhipinti
big itailian smile
ta-tas to match
orange mini dress
off-white pokla-dot s
are there bombshells
at 13?
never saw this
in grammar school--
those chocolate eyes
cut right to the center
of a 7th grade
boy's heart
nothing else mattered
before or after
that polka dot image
was burned into this
kid's brain
testosterone &
awkwardness
raced to every corner
of my body
as I stumbled
into the chair beside her
--slouched in jeans
white t-shirt
checked her out
through the corner
of my eye
checking me out
through the corner
of hers
today I learned
on some reunion site
she had died--
breast cancer
of all damn things
it made me sad
I hoped her life
was good
as I saw her
in that mini dress
and remembered
how many times
I dropped my pencil
In another life Scot Young used to be a construction worker but for the last 19 years he has been paid to hang out with kids. He started writing poems again after a 30 year absence and has published one or two. He may be the only school principal in America to have all of Christopher Robin's books and occasionaly teaches a poetry class to the Breakfast Club. He once sang with Kenny Loggins and wrestler Dirty Dick Murdoch, but mainly he just puts bread on the table. Stop by to see more from Scot on Saturday and Sunday.
Shoots and Vines Compost: Scot Young
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