Poems By David Spicer

David Spicer has had poems in Chiron Review, Poppy Road Review, Mocking Heart Review, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, Midnight Lane Boutique, American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, and elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Story and four chapbooks, he’s the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He is scheduled to have a chapbook, Limbs From a Pear Tree (Flutter Press), released in the Fall of 2017.

BIG BANG DEPARTMENT

Sonofabitch! That idiot dwarf

just called Christ a bully,

a psychopath, a monster!

I watched skinny Lala smash

Mick with a bottle bigger

than a baby, knock him

on the floor, unzip and slip

off his blue jeans, and throw

him naked out of The Lucky Ape.

We’ll put a dress on ya next time,

scumbag, so I’m warnin’ ya,

run like a mad squirrel

and don’t come back.

Mick shrugged, flashed two

middle fingers at Lala

and the rest of us staggered away,

drenched with cheap beer

from a deaf mute drunk wearing

a blue lily in his lapel. Lala,

a born-again, pimpled ballerina

wearing paper wings, plopped

back down, her long neck a wolf’s

desire, a magnet for bad boys.

Brushing them off, she sighed

like a teacher needing a shower.

The owner called her a demented

magnolia, but Lala said, Who gives

a fuck? At least I’m not a runt

drowning in booze and a loser

in the big bang department!

TATIANA AND THE DOPPELGÄNGER HOTEL

The Russian gypsy collected porcelain

ashtrays and counterfeit matchbooks.

I’m Tatiana, she proclaimed without

an accent, welcoming me into her

honeycomb of a home. Fifty to sixty,

she held out her slender handshake

adorned with rings. Where’s your husband?

I asked. In prison waiting for a reprieve.

Rum and coke? she asked. No thanks.

I’m just looking for the antidote to death,

and someone told me you possess it.

Hah! she said. You may as well celebrate

life, for death is a myth. That’s my antidote.

Forgive yourself and blame nobody.

I glimpsed around the small room:

tchotchkes and pictures on the bookshelves.

My boy. He’s a cadet at West Point,

studying for radar engineer. What do you

do? she asked. I’m a carpenter, I said.

Oh, same job as Jesus. Don’t worry

about death, son, wash your soul

every day, recognize and reflect upon your

sins. Then one night you’ll find love

at the Doppelgänger Hotel, where

you’ll meet your other you. Now, please

go, I have another client, and leave

your three Jacksons on the kitchen table.

ON MY BRAND NEW SHACK’S RICKETY PORCH

I’ve craved bad girl Rhonda

much of my life, lingered

outside prison gates, longing

for the golden-haired felon

in a Panama hat who bragged

the Girl Scouts expelled her

for stealing a rhinestone uniform.

An usherette for the Malco,

she called men Sugar Pie

with a movie star smile and loved

the spotlight by belting out The Battle

Hymn and playing bluegrass

violin in the sunset symphony.

Rhonda raced a rusty black Studebaker

she carjacked—that impressed me—

from a speed demon and once wore

an organdy nightgown in a game

of beach volleyball with a fig in her

mouth. Oh, Rhonda, Tramp Duchess

refusing to loan me five bucks

for a protein bar and stranding

me in midnight mountains near

Tucson, come back, come back,

throw a malachite chess piece

this way as we lie on my brand

new shack’s rickety porch,

and I’ll undress past my

Ragged Andys, shed my virgin

skin: we’ll elbow each other

with kisses in tender, violent love

and then I’ll swig a shot of tequila

to toast you and your mother,t

he wild, cold moon.

RENT FREE FOR A YEAR

Archduke, our albino landlord,

invited us to indulge in apricots

and hash in his pavilion.

Cadillac, the cockatoo, tiptoed

on the dandelion floor of his cage,

blurted at Mimi, my wife,

Harridan, harridan, get yourself

a better gigolo. Then he farted,

Archduke ignoring him.

Bare-chested, the albino sported

henna tattoos of twin teardrops

down his gaunt cheek

and gryphons above each nipple.

He needs a nanny, Archduke said,

sliding down the pavilion banister.

I might put a bonnet on his plume.

Cadillac squawked, He’s horny

as a housewife, has blackbirds

in his butt. We laughed, Archduke

straddling a saddle on a sawhorse.

So how ’bout rent? Archduke asked.

Bang a dong, screw a pincushion,

Cadillac interrupted. Can we haggle?

I asked. How ’bout we take Cadillac

off your hands? Not on your harridan’s

ass! the bird squealed. All right,

Archduke answered. Rent free for a year.