Help From the Board
EvilToasterElf
Posts: 1,119
I'm handing in a portfolio for my next class this week - I figure I'll give em to the board to see if you guys can catch anything I missed - good hunting to you...
1. The Creature from the Beer Lagoon
After the third Sam Adams
I had to take a piss in
a cold white bathroom.
I stared down at my hairy
knuckles, thinking “I’m
a fucking werewolf stuck
in a moonless night.”
Some thug won’t need a silver
bullet to stop me, a Louisville
slugger would do the trick. My
bar tab rose with my BAC to
the point where I could breathe fire,
a nice trick to flag down a cab
that I couldn’t pay for.
So I stumbled for ten minutes
to get home instead, and the
echoes of my own steps fed my
beer induced paranoia of some
shadowy assailant, but at least
I had my salvation army clothes
on. Maybe he’d believe I had no
money for him
1. The Creature from the Beer Lagoon
After the third Sam Adams
I had to take a piss in
a cold white bathroom.
I stared down at my hairy
knuckles, thinking “I’m
a fucking werewolf stuck
in a moonless night.”
Some thug won’t need a silver
bullet to stop me, a Louisville
slugger would do the trick. My
bar tab rose with my BAC to
the point where I could breathe fire,
a nice trick to flag down a cab
that I couldn’t pay for.
So I stumbled for ten minutes
to get home instead, and the
echoes of my own steps fed my
beer induced paranoia of some
shadowy assailant, but at least
I had my salvation army clothes
on. Maybe he’d believe I had no
money for him
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my destiny sits between
two slices of bread in
a half eaten bologna sandwich
trapped behind an empty
jug of apple cider
piled in front are my
mashed potato poems
in a tupperware square
with a blue lid which is
pinned under my sister’s
crying bowl of peas, garnished
with a second place medal
in the 400 meter relay
fantasies of epic verse
crescendo in a squarish
piece of aluminum foil
from a two week old
second helping of tri-tip
steak, which was overcooked
a broken finger which
stole my baseball career
was piled under stuffing
preventing my curveball from
slipping out of the strike
zone, and the bastard
took it over the left field wall
my father’s retirement fund
wades through cranberry sauce
sinking in coagulated slush,
like the shores of new jersey
so far from his beloved
caribbean beaches
a spot shines on a grandfather
of a turkey leg, slowly dissolving
the meat into a hard inoperable
growth, not fit for the dog
we threw it in the incinerator
where the ashes scattered over
mounds of garbage
as dusk enfolded the trail
she climbed, until starlight melded with the
canopy, severing flashlight spectrums,
reaching into the sky, curving
into silver coils that bathe bare oak limbs
and her foggy breath became memories
of skinny suburban kids playing under sprinklers
camping in backyard sing a’ longs
chanting guns and roses to sliding glass doors
where smiling parents swelled with lemonade
waiting for children’s dreams to reach murky fruition
in college dorm rooms, energized with confusing hormones
slaves to unknown thoughts that cling
like beer stains to white tee-shirts, before
professional entropy gripped that cubicle of the mind
singing in the shower to sold out crowds of
imagined audiences, screaming her name to
the rafters for encores, in voices that rose and
fell to the stage, rolling like quiet waves at
a vacation getaway, dancing in the air, like
the five pointed oak leaves that glide,
playfully to the grass,
outside her window.
Everything depends
On a brown cardboard box
Spotted with mold
Surrounded by dust and sunlight
Beside a collection
Of classic Playboys
Everything depends
On a small graph
Swallowing Cartesian coordinates
Sloping and curving
Establishing trajectory
For a small box
100 million miles away
that’s already crashed
I pull off a copper striped necktie and slam it
into the large oak bar. It was as if the fabric
had rusted through my sternum and corroded
my lungs like a winter beaten muffler.
I order three shots of Jack Daniels and
pound them down my throat one after another,
chasing the chips of the oxidized tie through my
bowels. And I see them floating in
crude oil whiskey sinking to the bottom of my
bloodstream. I shake my head quickly,
hoping to eliminate the aftertaste
of the drink,
and the pictures in my head. Leaving room
in that dark attic to wonder
whether we are more human when ideas
string together in strands of Christmas tree lights
or when the lights are unplugged and all that
shows is a blank smile on the other side of our face. I flip
a ten dollar bill out of my wallet and return
to my table slowly. I stare at the bride’s table, that rectangle
filled with romantic thoughts. She looks perfect up there,
with sun-streaked
red hair that coils into her soft shoulders, and a tight white dress
wrapped around her frame, like some Hollywood starlet
of smiling immortality. She glances
at me with her green eyes and 100 tiny crystal bells chime all
around me. And as my dark space
fills
with pictures of tiny bells hanging from my ribcage,
struck by every expansion of my diaphragm
I hear the suited multitude shouting, “Toast!”
When we were finished she rolled over
and fell immediately asleep. My maroon
cotton sheets separating her naked body
from my sweat covered eyes, which
formed tears, like those forced from peeled
onions. Was it that bad?
“No,” she said, “It’s just like vacuuming.”
It’s not the size that counts I thought, it’s
how you vacuum. From that night on
all I can think about during sex is my
penis rolling around the carpet, picking
up dirt, but my room’s still always a mess.
Were my kisses just dustbusters? My backrubs
a lint brush?
When we grinded to Sean Paul, or Cisco all
I could think about was a night of passion with
me, her, and my 8 pound Orec. It fits under the bed
when you’re done, no bags, no mess.
So now I’ve moved on, onto tiled bathrooms and a
hardwood foyer and living room.
I figure when I get old enough, all I’ll be doing
is mopping anyway.
minivans speed down aisle after aisle
half blinded by a 2 PM sun, searching
for an empty rectangle, outlined
b
y
bright, monotonous yellow lines
before they’ve even stepped in the door
a red caravan cuts off a Dodge neon
rusted, its single occupant a retired woman
in a plum dress
“Damn it!” she yells to an empty passenger side
to the ghost of a husband beaten by lung cancer and Jack Daniels
and the shadows of two grown up children, fleeing the scene of
a crime, abusive parenting
so that an overweight, overwhelmed mother
can pile her 4 children, sweatpants and payless shoes
out of the van, mullets are still not dead here
the building is monumental, it has multiple entrances, and
lawnmowers, go-karts wrapped in chains, and garden blocks
lay outside the utilitarian frame of the store
but once inside
two old men greet me with genuine smiles
one with thick red frames, one with thick black
the glasses compliment the blue vest
the ageless motto of the salesman plastered
on the back of cheap uniforms
“How may i help you?”
plaid is the dress code here
they can’t sell self-esteem, that’s not something you can
bring home on sale, it’s only to be found in the company of the clientele
here
such a mingling,
a smartly dressed blonde woman in her 30’s,
fairly successful
wearing the kind of shoes that sting hard surfaces
begging eyes to stare at her legs, and rise to the seams
of her tight jeans, drawing attention to
a body toned by gym membership
“Attention shoppers, want to beat the holiday rush? Apply now for a supersavers credit card and get a free porcelain snowman, care of your 24 hour supercenter.”
she averts her glance from a local folk, holding hands with his young son, wearing
green camo pants and battered black boots, he smiles genuinely to her
backside, lowering his gaze to her ass, revealing gaps in his teeth.
4 college guys stroll by, laughing about how much
they’d drunk last night, none of the clothes
they wear have or will ever touch a display at Wal-Mart, they
went to the electronics section to pick up some DVD’s
i get to the food section, the cold cereal
aisle and look back, three quarters of a mile away lies
the auto care center
such a meaningless destination,
thousands of men died
to gain less distance at the Somme
I can see the brigades charge over the trenches of DVD racks
dodging under the barbed wire Christmas tree lights
avoiding the machine gun nest in arts and crafts, hidden behind a wall
of felt
men and boys are cut down by hails of helpful rhetoric from employees
and exploding shopping carts
countless athletes have sustained lifelong injuries
to move a ball half that distance
driving through the defensive line of specially priced bean bag chairs
the quarterback rolls back to sporting goods, and fires a rifle, straight to his
wide receiver in the autocare zone, where he’s tackled hard by a employee
past his prime
a sniper may have been this far from Kennedy,
cruising down lingerie with his top down
while a scope held his head like a newborn child from dinnerware
what do the Cat in the Hat, a bright green frog, toucan sam, tony the tiger, dexter’s laboratory, Winnie the pooh, a leprechaun, and scoobie doo have in common?
one third of your child’s meals and 0% of their nutrition
i tried a free sample of Finlandia Swiss Cheese
there was a choice of low-fat or regular
“The Swiss should stick to watches and banking” i muttered
to the elderly woman, seemingly happy to be out of the house
“I’m a cheddar man myself”
“Oh well, at least you tried something new” she seemed to push
the words through her teeth by some ventriloquist’s willpower
as i walk through the frozen foods section
i hear a small child scream “I want ice-cream”
the mother looks around the store and sternly
says “No!” and in a lowered voice and even
harsher tone says “Be quiet! You’re embarrassing me!”
the child stops for a moment and i turn around
stopping suddenly to avoid being crushed by the full
cart of a large woman in black leather, black jeans, and
black shoes, who inaudibly mouths “excuse me” after she passes
i take a left down an aisle containing
“box dinners” and “international”
as i walk from Hamburger Helper to Tacos and
barilla pasta, i hear the same pleading voice asking
for potato chips the next aisle over
continuing my malaise down the next aisle i
see the woman rear back and smack
the child across the face
my mind blares like the loudspeaker that has been announcing
“extra special” deals
we have a spill on aisle nine, moral leak on aisle nine, Fred can you get
a mop, this one’s a doozy
as i pass intimate apparel i see an large blonde woman, of German or
Austrian descent, she looks like my grandmother, but she doesn’t
wear a name tag, her vest, obviously an older version, is faded where her ample
stomach sticks out, says “We make all the difference”
in the electronics section a compilation of 102 Bible Songs sells for $4.99
pop music is marked down to 12 dollars from 14 or 16
DMX’s new cd is sold in censored form, even song titles have to be censored
F#ck that must by annoying
next door is the sporting goods section
to the array of different urines meant to attract deer
does doe, raccoon, or fox urine attract customers more efficiently?
i am reminded of a game my friends and i used to play
on long car rides, or hikes in
the woods, we’d name three of the most random things
we could think of that
can be purchased at the same store
Finlandia Swiss Cheese, A Compilation of Bible Songs, and Raccoon Urine
finally I’ve crossed the belly of the beast and arrived at the auto care section
which required a crow’s nest to see a half hour before
i arrive at a section of the store filled with more employees than customers
the toy section is colorful but empty, not so much as a whisper of a single excited kid
but a shrill scream can be heard originating from somewhere near the pet section
they have no real pets there, just goldfish and pet food
the cosmetics section is filled with college girls
shopping in plain gray pajamas
there are no possible hook-ups here, no blaring hip-hop
no body shots and kegstands here
but they raise their noses at me anyway, in my blue jeans
and salvation army button down shirt
nobody under 60 stands under the bright blue RX sign
they look sad and overwhelmed
buckling under the weight of their own life prolonging
prescriptions
walking parallel to the entrance are the mini-businesses
Hairstylists
Vision Center
“Regal Nails”
Arcade
Portrait Studio
“Auntie Anne’s Pretzels”
and the Radio Grill
near the far entrance, the side nearest the groceries
is nestled the “Radio Grill” a floor of polished
checkerboard with blue banners and pictures of
rollerskate waitresses, black and white blown up
photos of 50’s cars. The throwback decorations
are cheap, the food is bad
It would be better to walk to aisle 3, buy a tv dinner, and
plug in a microwave at electronics and make a meal
check out lanes run down the length of the
store over 30 in all
the final hurdle between coveting and owning
a loud beep sounds to register the bar code
of all the items being bought. Echoed by the
monotone of tired cashiers with nothing but
the unattractive masses to cater to
black semi-transparent bubbles, dart out of the ceiling
every few meters, they reflect shapes and movement
ostensibly they contain cameras, watching the motions
of both customer and employee
but most people know more than half of them are empty,
just a small deterrent
they hang like crude oil raindrops sprayed onto
the leaves of some endangered Venezuelan plant
too proud to fall and soak into the wet soil
in “Regal Nails” a family of young Asians toil, men
And women inhaling fumes and chemicals for
2 bucks a nail
every other aisle of the parking lot has two spaces
“Reserved for expectant mothers” with a picture
of a thin stork on the sign
he certainly wasn’t dropping the kids in the toy section
on the way back to my car i pass
a dark blue van, a Chevrolet express
no driver, in the passenger seat sits a red haired
girl of about 14 reading a book and 3 younger
boys scream from the back
abandoned to evil doers and good Samaritans
walking the parking lot, towing their gods in carts
wrapped in paper or plastic
staring skyward, waiting for a rainbow, or a comet,
or dick clark with a giant check to fall
as i pulled out I noticed behind me
two women in sitting in a red Ford F-150
with a red handicap display hanging from
the rearview mirror and a fly-guard stating
“Praise the Lord”
A
All
Are
Axcellent
I liked Vacuuming and Leftovers the best.
How big does your portfolio have to be?
"Nothing" sounds like a parody of William Carlos Williams' The Red Wheelbarrow. Was that the goal? In one of my writing classes, we had to write a parody of This Is Just To Say
Mine went something like:
I have stabbed
your mother
in the head
with the cutlery set
she got
for our wedding.
Please forgive me.
It wasn't the set I wanted.
GOD! you make me laugh and
i love you.