November 22-28, 2010: Big Poppa E and Bonita Smith

Big Poppa E
eirikott@yahoo.com 

 

Bio (auto)

Big Poppa E writes and reads poetry for a living He probably lives in Austin, Texas Visit him on the web here: www.bigpoppae.com

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Big Poppa E and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


 

my undying love

i have begun strengthening my body
through strict diet and exercise i am training in the arts
of hand-to-hand combat
and outdoor survival i have amassed an arsenal
of axes, baseball bats and assault rifles i have arc-welded thick plates of steel
to the circumference of my old tour van
and stockpiled enough canned food
and medical supplies to last for months
so
should we become separated
when the zombie apocalypse comes
i will be prepared to plow through
scuffling hordes of the undead
across this entire country
until i find you again
i will camouflage my living smell
with the rotting viscera
of my undead foes
so i can shuffle shoulder to shoulder
amongst the stumbling corpses
and scour abandoned cities for signs of you —
a hair ribbon
a scarf
your left shoe —
allowing my lovelorn wails
to mimic their soulless moans for brains
i will prowl the radio waves
for hints and allegations of your continued existence
broadcasting your name over and over
into the crackling static
begging you
to hold on
for one more day
because i am coming for you
i will visit every enclave of survivors
just long enough to replenish my supplies
of fresh water and biodiesel
and show them
the tattered snapshot of you
your warm blue eyes
your curls

and should i find you too late
your soft skin gone putrescent
your lovely smile twisted into rictus
the dirty tendrils
of your lavender sweater
dragging behind your shuffling gait

oh my love

i will fall to my knees
tear open my flak jacket
and offer my bare chest to you
and as you rip through my flesh
crack open my ribcage
and gnaw upon my beating heart
i will rejoice as
my body enters yours one last time and i will wait
until the dying embers of my life begin to flicker and smoke
then i will gently, lovingly
place the muzzle of my sawed off shotgun to your temple
and release your soul from this hell on earth
and then i will hold you
as long as i can
before finally setting myself free.

 

_______________________________

 

Bonita Smith
roxinante@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Bonita Smith is a native Floridian, born in Daytona Beach and raised in South Florida She studied political science in Washington, DC and Florida and has traveled the United States working on political campaigns and visiting friends She currently resides in Fort Lauderdale and works as a government relations consultant

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Bonita Smith and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

 

Bus Ride Down Agua Fria

Away from holy Hyde mountains
south down rural Agua Fria,
from flat-top apartments to
planet road chickens and
burned-out horse trailers packed
with wild weeds and trash,
I sat on the city bus and smiled
thoughts of coal mine beers and
penned great white round geese by the
Santa Fe Railyard graffiti An elder long-haired, bearded hippy
sat up front chatting with the driver A tall, thin man stood to exit, and
placed a wide ladies’ straw beach hat
with a pink robbon and bow atop his
head and stepped into the rain “That sure is a fancy hat,”
said the hippy The bus driver nodded A cowboy-booted Mexican chuckled The holy Hyde mountains hid
blanketed behind dark gray rainclouds,
resting from coyote howls and
pea-sized hail At a stop sign,
the road chickens wandered
around the loan bus chasing
fat raindrops, and for a moment,
I was their sun,
illuminating them.

Greenwich Village Furs

White and brown furs in October,
big sunglasses decorate the women
chatting by toddlers throwing from Seravalli’s
sandbox next to a soiled white bearded man
sleeping under a week-old Post, mouth open
blanket for the green rotting wooden bench
in a No Dogs Allowed playground “No towers! Save our village!” the artist cries,
chalk on his fingers and face and torn blue
jeans rocking back and forth The legs speed, and easel and a sign in red
“$5 a Portrait God is Queen ”
The flutist lady in black boots cannot
drown the brown dog standing, barking
outside the playground.