2 POEMS, 1 FLASH – Catfish McDaris

Posted: August 2, 2011 in Fiction, Flash, Poetry
Tags: , , ,

0 My Ass

 

The phone rang

caller ID

read Texas

 

A voice said,

“I have important

information for

individuals

0 to 85”

 

I hung up

thinking, 0

 

How in the hell

would I answer

the damn phone,

if I was 0

* * *

December Blues

 

It was December 10th

at the post office, there

was no mail anywhere

 

An old timer says, “When

the Christmas rush hits,

you’ll scream, Jesus

fucking Christ”

 

I stared at him like

the dumb ass that he

was & opened my

lunch bag

 

Red lemon butterflies

danced around his face,

then disintegrated into

dust covering him from

head to toe

 

The man was mystified,

like something from an

Otto Dix nightmare

 

 Falling to the floor, he

died in his stinking combat

boots & army field jacket

 

All he had in his pockets

were a Canadian nickel, a

swastika, & a pack of

Russian cigarettes

 

I helped myself to a smoke

* * *

Bring Me An Apple With No Worms

 

After attending a brief writer’s workshop and reading and presenting several stories and poems, I got a letter from the cute female instructor. “I feel there is something lurking deeper behind your words than fornication, defecation, and masturbation. The class is quite taken with you. The plump young lady that writes about her chiropractor performing the Harley-Davidson kick start maneuver on her sacroiliac is obsessed with you. The old grandma that keeps bring you vagina shaped cookies is crazy for you. The gay guy can’t remove his eyes from your well endowed crotch. You have blown my mind with your work and persona. I wake up at night and have to reach for Mr. Buzzy while fantasizing about you. The community center has agreed to fund an anthology of our collective writing. Would you agree to be editor?” I wrote back in the affirmative with a dinner invitation. One thing leads to another, happily I might add. Later I submitted some poems about me having sex with gay zombie dogs; I felt I wasn’t the proper judge of my own work.

.

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