Poems By David Spicer

David Spicer has had poems in Yellow Mama, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, In Between Hangovers, The American Poetry Review, Easy Street, Ploughshares, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, and in A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Pushcart, is the author of one full-length collection of poems and four chapbooks, and is the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books.


BARBECUE OR NO BARBECUE 

The coyotes who live by the airport
have adapted: they’ve cut the fences,
sleep in hammocks, and barbecue
every Sunday. English, the alpha
coyote--the one with weak eyes--
pontificates after he drinks a bowl
of tequila. I witness this circus
before Bible school in the evening,
in the parking lot. Mosquitoes
bite every night--there’s no escape.
Of course, we could return
to the tunnels, but we’d have no
room to pace. We’d be chasing our
tails, but we’re far from tame: I don’t
want to boast about tricks up my
sleeves from season to season, but I
can migrate east to pick cotton
or north to guard safe houses.
If asked, I’ll muster courage to patrol
streets or guide smugglers. They grin
at my growls and don’t believe I carry
a rusty jackknife. I’ll offer anything
to the other coyotes, except English,
that is: he’s buried his head in the dirt
and wants to live in peace, rhetoric
studded with weak barks. It’s time I
make a move, barbecue or no barbecue.


PARTNERS IN CRIME 

Call me a castrated cha-cha dancer,
fear me, avoid eye-contact when you
talk, or think of me as a hermaphrodite,
but I ain’t no joke, nor your steel-eyed
boyfriend. Behave yourself and agree
to sneak me some lithium. Convince
me to shake my ass when I need to.
Nurse me, steal me a Randall knife.
Come on! Chop chop! Let’s burn
balloons and break some porcelain.
I crave a rave at the pub, I’m a maestro
captor, I’ll be your drug-addled brother
if you want. Let me float above
the fray. If I could beg, I’d suggest
you utilize irony, I’d demand we
invade a massacre with a camera’s
detachment. Then we’d own a tale
for our collective memory’s diary,
we’d reveal great skill, and ignore
fans asking for autographs. Have I
convinced you yet? Think about it,
give me an answer by midnight:
let’s be partners in crime.


PRODIGAL BASTARD 

My brogue might terrify you
with its twang when I nag with bad
grammar, and I’ll be the first to shriek
in this sorry estate hearing if I can’t
talk to an heir. I’m no imbecile,
even though I’m not a success
with anyone except the fat maid.
I’m the basket case, the prodigal
bastard, but not a vagrant because I’ve
written twelve unpublished books--
all with the word wolf in them--
so that will be my legacy. My father
and brother were giants in their
medical fields and I didn’t adore them
or offer anything but deformed ears
I’d collected over the years and five
hundred pits from a cherry-eating binge.
I’ll challenge any of you coward
cousins in this crowd to a duel out back.
I might weigh 400 pounds, but my quick form
is a beautiful blur against the landscape.
Let it storm: the trees will shield us
when the wind whines like a depressed
folk singer, and the thunder will bellow
like two gunshots that breeze by each other
and hit their big targets like self-fulfilled
prophecies. Any takers, lovely relatives?