Jimi, Jim, Patsy, Hank, Woody, Blind Willie, and David J. Thompson

David J. Thompson goes places. And he takes pictures. And writes poems.

Rub This Poem

Next chance you get,

rub this poem

on the chest

of a sick child.

I’m not kidding.

Go ahead.

See what happens.

I dare you.

Salvation

I have a job

sorting lentils

at the local convent

of the Poor Clares.

Minimum wage.

No benefits.

Better chance

of salvation,

the Sisters say,

than promotion.

Past Due Bills

He’s in the post office lobby

holding a baby girl; you know

the look – ex-frat boy in his late twenties,

white Polo, pressed khakis, and stylish

stubble. I hate him already, but I see

he’s wearing a Boston Red Sox cap,

so after I drop my past due bills in the slot,

I walk up to him like I’m admiring the kid.

He gives me his best Matt Damon smile,

and then I punch him as hard as I can

right on the nose. I hear the bone crack,

see blood spurt out, watch the baby fall.

I just keep walking out into the parking lot,

thinking what I might have done

if he was wearing a fucking Dodgers cap.

I Guess You Could Say

Every English major knows,

with a wink and a grin, that

Lord Byron, the great Romantic,

had more than a sibling relationship

with his half-sister, Augusta,     .

but it turns out that his father,

Mad Jack, as he was known,

was lovers with his own sister, too.

A chip off the old block.

Like father, like son.

I guess you could say

incest runs in the family.

I Have Sinned

No matter where we are

in our lovemaking, if

my new girlfriend hears

church bells ringing,

she stops whatever we’re doing,

crosses herself about a hundred times

and keeps repeating, Forgive me, Father,

for I have sinned.

The next time I go to CVS

to buy some condoms,

I’m going to pick up

some ear plugs, too.

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