Thursday, April 4, 2019

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

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