Jeffrey Spahr-Summers
Jeff is a poet, writer, photographer, and publisher. He lives in Boulder, Colorado. Visit him on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Jeffrey Spahr-Summers and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
the surprise
It could be;
anything,
a bug in the eye,
a pothole or
a speed bump,
a stop sign
upside down,
a period before.
it is realized
or an ant bite,
a mosquito,
one never knows
the perception of expectations.
It might be;
the woman
suddenly naked
in front of you,
black panties
on the floor
glib,
the sting of the zipper,
the whipped
cream pie all
over your face,
the dog
flatulent,
maybe
something
more subtle.
.
Colin Dardis
Colin Dardis is a poet, editor and sound artist. His work has been published widely throughout Ireland, the UK and USA. Previous collections include Endless Flower (Rancid Idols Productions, 2021) The Dogs of Humanity (Fly on the Wall Press, 2019, shortlisted for Best Poetry Pamphlet, Saboteur Awards 2020), the x of y (Eyewear, 2018), Post-Truth Blues (Locofo Chaps, 2017) and Dōji: A Blunder (Lapwing, 2013).
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Colin Dardis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
The Astonished Backseat of ‘86
We’re out of school, down Mountfield Road,
traffic locking us to near the entrance
of Scotts Feeds Ltd; its bovine malt
wafts through this side of town,
picked up back in the playground,
unnecessary and unwanted.
I’m idling out the car window,
traffic jams keeping me back
from the important business
of Children’s ITV; no cartoon speed lines
drawn on our Vauxhall Rover.
Then: “Look, that man has no hair!”
laughing and pointing as only a kid can
at a skinhead punk in leather jacket and jackboots,
walking faster than our commute.
It is my first time seeing a bald person,
a walking egg, scalp as open and white
as an unwrapped football on Christmas morning.
Mother scolds me from the front seat,
rushes me into quietude, anchors my pointed finger.
He is a punk, and therefore dangerous,
will most likely give us the finger and then
gob on our windscreen. I calm my wide eyes
and silently wonder where his hair got to.
Now I am over forty, and shave my head clean
once a week, my arm heavy from the angle
of curvature, from the repeat of glide and rinse.
Oh mothers, oh fathers, teach your children
not to guffaw at us bald men
in our reasonable jackets, going about our days.
We have seen their fate,
see it still
in every fated mirror.
