Certain People Standing in line at a convenience store— not far from New Orleans—I became a pawn in some bigot’s game. I’d met the type, up in Maine, the way life should be... They exist there too. That big mural of my grandfather’s he had painted on the wall in his woodshop, above the woodstove and piles of sawdust and cigarettes, even taught me to believe it was alright to kill certain people. It showed a Japanese Naval ship being blown up by a United States Navy War Plane circa 1944 complete with flames and screaming bodies. My catholic jesus, my catholic grandfather, my catholic little boy self sat there on winter nights feeding sticks into the fire while the woodsmoke made its way into the new england sky. We produced pine wood derby cars out there, a guitar, clocks in the shape of Maine, and as I watched grampa work, I felt safe. I grew up hearing jokes about spear chuckers and faggots, more light hearted ones about the Portuguese guy's wife. The Jews, the Itali...
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Dean's Game Face
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Dean’s Game Face Sometimes on a sticky summer day, I’ll smell the grass, and think of Dean. Dean, waiting for me at the end of a gauntlet with his big paw ready to slap my balls. Dean, who had a beard and an ATV when he was 12-years-old. Dean at the end of the line waiting for me while I run head and shoulders down holding onto that ball so tight plowing through those bodies and the concussion of pads and helmets, the hands that threaten to the tear the ball free and just when I see the light there’s Dean’s big hand going for my crotch and a few seconds later— a pain in my stomach. I fall to the ground still holding the ball, and can still see Dean through my facemask giggling. The coach screams: “Judas Priest, god damnit Dean, take a lap,” Dean laughing, looking back, as he trots away and I’d get up calling him a mother fucker and the coach would respond, “And you too.” and then Dean would be laughing and we’d running side by side. Dean ...
34 years later and counting
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34 years later and counting— A bonfire, 1987, homecoming night. I'm there tonight, with a bottle of wine. That night, the number had been owned by this really popular wavy haired blonde kid who drove a chevy truck before country was cool and who’d made a name for himself in blue and gold. A recent graduate, playing college ball— up in Orono as they used to say. He’d heard I’d chosen the number he’d worn and spotted me. “You think you can live up to that number,” the voice asked, dead serious, out of the dark and the heat of the burning pallets that warmed the faces of the people sipping whiskey poured into coke cans. I looked up and saw him. Six two. 200 pounds and good looking. “Yeah. Hi. It was my father’s number too,” I said, feeling pathetic. I was 14 years old. He smiled. “Well, I hope you have a good season,” he said, and disappeared towards the coaches, the high school principal, and a few booster people on the far side of the fire....
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Zach by Scott Merrill thank you, zach This kid, 22 or so, tanned face, styled wavy brown hair, he sez: hi I’m zach and I’ll be your server, can i get you all started with drinks? inside I’m groaning. the night goes okay for a while other than my brother’s sitting across from me is like walking on explosive eggshells but he’s being good for some reason so I think all's safe. But this, let’s go out to eat at this expensive restaurant for our stepfather’s 72’d with his bigoted relatives from jersey in tow who I’ve never met, trumpers through and through, all while the jews are without a doubt killing palestinians as they wait for a cup of rice and the ICE meatheads are throwing people in vans and shooting people in the streets... But there I am. Part of the well fed herd while the bone in the rib-eye steaks are joked about because they look like tomahawks and where’s my sense of humor?; I could no doubt use it by the time my chicken peca...
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DEAR LANDLORD by Phil Hart My new landlord is a sexy Little fuck one of those innocent Wide-eyed blond faces that fools Everyone all the live long day So everyone forgets he's a fuck Of a landlord where even there He plays the “oh my really?” card So bad I wanna slap him around. Checking up on him I found it- His photo online in jeans easy Shirt easy pose slight smile leaning Against a door jam bulge tastefully Showing- that come hither look In blue eyes not really behind wisp Of new beard always suggesting Easy nakedness just shave it off In five four three two one tada. And did I mention his name I think Not, well here it is and yes it's JOSH and no I'm not kidding blowme Josh my landlord or fuckme Josh my Landlord or time to pay your rent With your mouth Josh my landlord Or spank my cute landlord ass Josh Oh did I mention Josh sells real estate And handles 30 million dollar Transactions? no I guess I left that out. Time to string Josh up by the ankles Time to correct ...
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WRITING by Phil Hart he sat down to write and couldn't think of a fucking thing, not a fucking thing except the old stuff he already wrote about and sure he wanted to write about that stuff again but he already did like how many times can you write about the dismal time you hate fucked or the time you betrayed the fuck out of friends or turned a blind eye to love or got fucked when you were just an innocent child... yeah sure before before it gets old to everyone except you- yeah yeah I got the answer- infinity. There, you got it. You can do it again and again and again again again again again again the layers are all there waiting to be peeled Back like the way she looked in her eyes that moment when she recognized that cock Of yours stabbing her was really meant to kill her and the pleasure of sex was just a byproduct, you know the look the terror flickering out the hope of a love-making forever-after when two people suddenly know it's all the fucking competition they can han...
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A Schopenhauer Moment by Scott Merrill How do we do it? How does anyone do it? This guy at the convenience store every day same words without even looking up 'hi sir how are you? Goodbye sir.' Have a good day sir.' nice enough guy I think, but Swear to God there are people out there who say this is just the way it is, the assholes, what're you gonna do, it is what it is, shit happens watcha gonna do and that's just life. T hings aren't so bad. But things are actually so much worse than what most of us know how to talk about these days. There has to be a forgetting a way to corale all the stupidity and cruelty and caring and fuck it to death. But then what? We wait for the next orgasm, the next paycheck, the next sentimental quirky stupid ragebaiting whatever moment to post dreaming of a quiet place in the desert where we can get right. I'm really not trying to be miserable. Thank you very much.