Automatic
goes off
in hand.
Singers
don’t clean
up scat.
Poop’s
now the
pudding.
Infection
spread on
word salad.
Spontaneity
combusts
uninsured.
Automatic
goes off
in hand.
Singers
don’t clean
up scat.
Poop’s
now the
pudding.
Infection
spread on
word salad.
Spontaneity
combusts
uninsured.
Do you recall those earlier days when lost in a haze, I would follow you anywhere?
Jumping off the bridge on our bikes onto the small island in the middle of a stream.
Riding headlong into a cornfield, the plants smashing against us.
The 4th of July when we snuck into the park,.no one knew we got in for free.
It was all a storybook adventure.
You were something like a hero to me.
We got high for the first time before band practice and spent the day laughing as only fourteen year-olds can.
I loved that first year of High School.
We sat close together in a private world until the teachers separated us.
When the class had to read aloud from some obscure text, I never could because you would make me laugh.
You were rebellious, full of pranks.
We put discarded Christmas trees on top of people's cars.
You got nabbed shoplifting candy, not content with the free samples the outlet provided.
It was all in good fun.
We slept over at each other's houses always trying to sneak out after curfew.
Your parents would catch us and order us back to bed.
One night we made it to the school building.
How different it seemed in the dark.
You were Tom and I was Huck.
I never suspected those days would end with no more Summer vacations to fill.
We were in the same Cub Scout pack.
You insisted we join marching band and I was stuck trying to learn how to play the trumpet.
Those bus rides were fun with Renata's head in my lap.
You and I and Brenda formed the terrible trio.
Everything changed during our Sophomore year.
You went off each morning to Vo-Tech.
You got a car and your family moved to another part of town.
That was the beginning of the end.
After graduation, you signed up to the Navy and were placed on a ship in San Francisco.
We did write back and forth.
You called me when you went AWOL and were unsure of what to do.
Things got heavier and sadder for awhile.
When you returned home, I was somebody new, myself for the first time.
I am sitting in
my backyard reading
a book of poetry.
Notice my nosy
neighbour watching
me from her
window. She
doesn't read poetry.
Probably thinks I
am looking at
porn. I wave at her.
Blow a playful
kiss. She screams
something vicious
out the window.
I reach for my
crotch. Start rubbing
theatrically. She
violently slams
the window. Face
redder than
ripened beets.
Threatening to call
the police. I
shake my head.
Continue reading.
A poem written
over sixty years
ago by a person
far greater
than she could
ever be. Punching
at the walls
inside her suburban
fortress. Imagining
they were me.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.
Between two worlds
possibly more
I sweat it out
try to get a grip
On the impermeable—
Did I choose
which to
remember / consciously
the day by day
While the other
continues to move
along in motion—
Or was this parceled out
like scatter feeding
crumbs to street birds—
Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com