Richard D. Houff was the editor of Heeltap Magazine and Pariah Press from 1986 to 2010. He has had poetry and prose published in Aldebaran, Brooklyn Review, Chiron Review, Louisiana Review, Midwest Quarterly, North American Review, Rattle, and many other fine magazines. His most recent collections are Night Watch and Other Hometown Favorites, from Black Cat Moon Press, The Wonderful Farm and Other Gone Poems, from FlutterPress, and Adventures In Space and Other Selected Casualties, from Alien Buddha Press.
Poor Richard’s Horrifying Life: Part 3
Taking a direct hit
to the head from a half-full
beer can thrown from a 47 Plymouth
pickup was my first brush with death
Stealing pop bottles from
“The Cottage Inn” a roadhouse
on the outskirts of town, resulted
in a shotgun blast to the ass—
this was my second brush with death
The hubcap business ended on a sour note
after meeting the three-legged junkyard dog,
off his leash and lightning fast—
this would be my third brush with death
By the age of ten, I had adopted the three strike
baseball philosophy to most disagreeable
situations, and after having had three close calls,
I decided to retire back into doing absolutely nothing
A seven year run without too many issues
proved to be a good batting average, but the
Mickey Mantle mentality came to an abrupt halt
when the casualty reports from Viet Nam
became more than local news
Dead Flowers
Hidden from windswept fields
and choosing to walk forest paths
he groans against
the cancerous growth of night
And there is no comfort here
Curling fetal and closing his eyes
over a blanket of wet leaves
he listens for ghosts
near a cluster of saplings
The mid-summer earth is hot
and unforgiving
He places a piece of bread
in his mouth and chews slowly
Hunger is a cruel forecast
but the big city can be a far worse
reward for runaway children
and those who would embrace
with open arms
Outside The Kennesaw Hotel
Minneapolis, Minnesota Ca. 1968 (Summer)
Everything is in hyper-mode:
heat altering heads under cruel
and tattered awnings
Concrete, asphalt and black tar mix,
create a Mississippi Delta affect
heading crazy fast toward noon
On our block, tempers flare unspeakable
and Leon carries a gun tucked under
his shirt; tails hanging easy
I’m just a punk kid walking down
West 15th St. counting window fans,
paying close attention to a new model
My room could use air flow;
maybe Leon could get me one
For now, we’ll visit the park
and find a shade tree to kill some time,
smoke a few numbers and relax
Leon is my friend,
he’s older and wiser
Leon is my friend,
and I’m scared shitless of him
Fresh Sheets
Here we have a mega-capsule
Of fossilized bureaucrats
The planners of urban renewal
Going nowhere
Humorless terrorists hard at work
Incorporating the world
With genuine manifestations
Of complete nothingness
And so we trip along
Over glass shard paths
Strewn with false securities
Poor Richard and a few followers
Smell something fishy and choose
The detour route
Past boarded-up homes and storefronts
United hand in hand
Skipping toward the madhouse
Where piped-in music beckons
As a fruitful solution to all of the above
No comments:
Post a Comment