|Daniel Romo teaches high school Creative Writing, and lives in Long Beach, CA He has been published here and there, and is currently seeking admittance into a rather swell low residency MFA program He strives to be witty and relevant in his poetry, but claims to use first person too much He’s addicted to SportsCenter and thinks gray sky the utmost inspiration |
Visit Daniel on the web here: myspace.com/danielfreeverseromo
The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by Daniel Romo and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
The plastic, olive infantryman
Obediently dangles out the window of
Alex’s mom’s new ’83 Corolla hatchback,
An old shoelace tied to his leg;
The other end clutched in my hand,
Sticky with sour apple Now and Laters residue Each green light stuttering over concrete
As if riddled with enemy fire,
Body crashing street like a dire Kamikaze Dropped off in my driveway,
I pick him up, put him in my palm,
And inspect his wounds recalling the word
I got wrong on the spelling test earlier in the day,
sacrifice Battered, misshapen, almost all in one piece,
One couldn’t tell
He never had a heart.
I’d never heard of Norman Schwarzkopf,
Didn’t know much about the Persian Gulf
Simply, “scud missiles” often punch lines
To late night monologues It’s early Monday morning, and I’m hung over
From a frat party when Alex calls “They may ship me to Iraq soon bro.”
I thought he only wore the uniform to get laid,
And the only time he’d ever fire,
Feverishly mashing button A
During drunken Nintendo wars The day we hugged goodbye my tears
Tasted like gunpowder,
And I hoped he’d shoot those
Mother fuckers in their mouths.
The house smelled festive Alex’s mom cooked chicken enchiladas,
And baked a chocolate cake Blue and white frosting read,
Welcome home hero Resuming epic video game battles
In his living room:
Me on the La-Z-Boy,
Feet propped up on the ottoman,
Alex next to me,
Just like pedaling to the park From his wheelchair,
Abrupt stubs once rangy legs he proclaimed,
“I’ll still kick your ass.”
In that moment I recalled,
Alex never missed words on spelling tests Battered, misshapen, almost still in one piece,
One couldn’t tell,
He never had regrets.
In another life he was John Rockefeller And raided trains with
You first met him at a
“Clue” board game-themed party;
He was Professor Plum.
That night he told you
He graduated Yale at 14,
And began renegotiating the debt
Of small European countries
Later that summer.
If it weren’t for his claim
To be the inspiration for Don Juan,
You knew him to be Casanova.
But you learned he was a liar,
Deftly painting portraits of impossibility,
At what he did.
|I am 51, live alone, love classical music, chess and computers I am a big Mets fan (baseball) and speak five languages I have two grown children-one of whom is autistic I look quite a bit like Jerry Garcia! LOL I live in the Ironbound section of Newark I am retired from the US Postal Service I am a bulbous, ugly, sick, poor and dullwitted fellow! When I finally go to those “piney woods”, to that great Super 8 in the sky, or to that celestial Chinese buffet, my epitaph should read:|
“HERE LIES THE CUTE LITTLE FELLA AT LEAST HIS POEMS DON’T SUCK!!!” LOL I am now on YouTube I am slowly uploading my videos onto that site, so you can see me read my pieces and decide for yourself whether they suck or not!
The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by David Neves and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
(How I Out Luperted Rick Lupert!)
Hey Rick, I bought your book,
Your bright, shiny, altar boy,
Sister Bertrill, pristinely
crossing guard orange
in order to fulfill
my life’s ambition
to win arguments
(which I could not do,
since I promptly
debated my cat Ksusha
and to influence poodles
(coincidentally, a shaggy,
snooty, toy poodle proceeded
to pee on my leg)
so I got my umbrella-
Oh yes, Rick, I bought your
The best $15.38
that I’ve ever spent!