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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Where In the World Is David J. Thompson?

David J. Thompson is the Zombie Logic Press roving poet and photographer.

Pluto And Goofy

In between jobs again, I was living

on a college friend’s couch for a while.

He phoned to say he wouldn’t be home

for dinner, was meeting this girl

who worked in the Disney store

at the mall he managed for a drink.

And if Heather calls, he said, tell her

I’m working late and I’ll talk to her

in the morning. I‘ve got to spend

the weekend with her and her mother

going over the all our wedding crap,

so the last thing I need is any other bullshit.

Roger that, I answered, and, do me a favor,

and ask the Disney chick to explain

how Pluto and and Goofy are both dogs,

but Goofy’s his best friend and Pluto’s just a pet.

He told me to fuck off and hung up.

A bag of Doritos, a six pack of Coors Light

and the ball game on tv were all about finished

when he got home, his suit coat over his shoulder,

his tie loosened. How’d it go? I asked.

Not great, he said with a shrug. She’s got nice tits

and all, but she’s really kind of ugly and very boring.

She did give me a decent handjob in the car

after I spent eighty bucks on dinner and drinks,

but then I practically had to push her out of my car.

I told him that didn’t sound too bad of an evening

and Heather hadn’t called. He said that was good,

was way too tired to deal with her, too, as he walked

into the kitchen. I could hear him rummaging

around in the fridge and when he yelled, Did you finish

all my beer? I knew I couldn’t ask him what he learned

about the difference between Pluto and Goofy.

"Stuck Truck"

For Rome Alone

Duty bound, my ass. I knew

that bastard Aeneas was up to no good

the moment he showed up here

in Carthage. Sure, he was good looking

like some kind of God, sexy like Elvis

and vulnerable like James Dean, and

I’ll admit we were all crying after he told us  

about how those Greek shitheads tricked

the noble Trojans with that fucking horse,

then killed his family and burned Troy

all the way to the ground. I guess

poor Dido never really had a chance.

And if that wasn’t enough, sure as hell

the damn gods conspired to get them alone

together in a cave safe from a thunderstorm.

I’m afraid there was more than staying dry

going on in there. They came out looking

like a pair of horny teenagers yanked

from the backseat of daddy’s Buick

at the drive-in theater. The next thing

you know, they’re seen all over town

more glamorous than Liz Taylor

and Dick Burton; the tabloids even say

they’re engaged, the future looks great.

But we should have known this wasn’t meant

for a one-horse town like Carthage.

No, the gods, sneaky bastards that they are,

intended that for Rome alone. The next thing

you know, that sneaky ass Mercury was seen

down among the ships talking to Aeneas,

then the whole Trojan fleet sails off in the dark,

and who’s left holding the bag? It’s too much

for poor Dido, she just can’t take that kind

of chickenshit rejection; so, poor kid,

she climbs all the way to the top of the pyre,

stabs herself with Aeneas’s own special sword,

and even all us dumbasses here who didn’t see

this coming don’t have to wait a few thousand years

for Sigmund Freud to tell us what the hell that means.

"Sun Rust"

A Real Asshole Now

Jesus Christ, already 10;15, I said

as I unslung my laptop bag to the floor,

pulled off my coat, and slumped

into my chair. These Tuesday night

away games are fucking killing me.

My girlfriend didn’t bother to look up

from the magazine she was reading

over on the couch, so we sat silently

for a few moments before I told her

that she was supposed to ask me

how we did.  How’d you do? she replied,

more a statement really than a question,

still not looking up. We got our asses kicked,

I answered as I struggled up and over

to the kitchen for a beer.

After I sat back down and took a long swallow,

she said, My new friend Aaron wants us

to go with him to see the new Tim Burton movie

tomorrow night. Oh, shit, I replied, told her

I was too tired  to go out during the week these days.

You never want to do anything anymore, she said

like she’d been rehearsing it all evening. I inhaled

a couple big gulps of beer, told her to give me a break,

I was teaching all day and coaching late every night.

She calmly turned the page, wanted to know

if I minded if she went with him alone to the movie.

No, go ahead, I said. Knock yourself out.

Do remember how much you said you hated Edward Scissorhands?

You know, she answered, putting the magazine down

on the coffee table, you can be a real asshole sometimes.

She stood up and informed me that they’d probably leave

straight from the office, there was some leftover Chinese

in the fridge I could reheat for dinner. And don’t bother

to wait up because I might be home real late, she added

walking past me, and before I could ask her about

who was being a real asshole now, I heard her close

our bedroom door hard behind her.

"Windows" By David J. Thompson

Poems and Photos By Zombie Logic Review Correspondent David J. Thompson

It More Than Sucks

Sophie broke up with me, Mike says

before I can even sit down next to him

at the bar. She says I like watching football

more than spending time with her.

Oh, man, I say. That really sucks.

I get the bartender’s attention, point

to the Pabst bottle and shot glass

in front of Mike, indicate that

we need two more of each.

It more than sucks, Mike says.

I’ll never meet anyone like her again.

I put my arm around his shoulder,

remind him that’s exactly what he said

when Stephanie divorced him

and when Karen dumped him

three months ago. He says

he means it this time, Sophie was

really special. I tell him to forget her,

he’ll be over her in a couple weeks.

We watch the bartender put the drinks

in front of us, then down our shots

of Jim Beam and a swallow of beer chaser.

As we stare at ourselves silently in the mirror

behind the bar, Mike says, Sophie was going

to get her nipples pierced for me, too,

I was really looking forward to that.

I tell him that, sure, that would be pretty cool,

but he’s still way better off without her.

I don’t know, he says. She was talking

about all three of them. Think about it.

After a few seconds where all I hear

is the clack of pool balls behind us,

I tell him that Sophie might be special

after all. Chug that beer, I advise him,

then go give her a call and beg her

to take you back. Promise to do whatever

she wants because she sure as hell sounds

a lot more fun than watching football.

Repent By David J. Thompson

Fluff And Fold

In lieu of paying taxes,

my landlord now keeps

four mental patients

from the county asylum

shackled to the wall

in the musty basement

of my apartment building.

My neighbors complain

that they can’t get to sleep

at night because the nuts scream

and rattle at all hours, but when

I go downstairs to do laundry

they always have quarters

for the washer and dryer,

and they’re happy to help me

fluff and fold my clothes even

with one arm chained to the wall.

Montana Doors by David Thompson

My Real Name

She asks me if I want chocolate cake

for dessert. No, Maria, I say, showing her

both my palms in an I give up gesture.

I can’t eat another bite. Really, I can’t

It’s my weekly dinner with the old woman

across the hall. She’s skinny as can be

with the world’s most narrow face

framed by thin white hair hanging lifeless

and uncombed to the collar of her housecoat.

Thanks for dinner, Maria, I tell her

as I push back my chair to stand up,

I’m in a hurry to get back to my apartment

for the ballgame that starts in a few minutes.

She motions for me to stop, says softly,

You know, Maria isn’t my real name.

Really? I answer. What is it then?

She looks away toward the back window.

I don’t know, she replies like she’s talking

to herself. C’mon, I say. How can you not know

your own name? She grips her wine glass

but doesn’t drink. Without any emotion

she says, At the end of the war I was

in a camp for lost children, you know,

and it seemed like weeks since I had eaten.

They gave me a cardboard badge

with my name on it, but while I stood

in the next long line, I was so hungry

that I couldn’t resist eating it. That’s all

I remember except that it tasted pretty good

and everyone started calling me Maria.

 For a few seconds all I could hear was

the faint hum of the refrigerator. 

Sweet Jesus, Ma . . ., I said breaking off

the last word about halfway and pulling

my chair back up to the table. Do you have

any ice cream to go with that cake?

Last Stop Party Shop by David Thompson

David J. Thompson is a poet and photographer, and Zombie Logic Review's roving correspondent

Closed Twice by David J. Thompson