Tuesday, June 11, 2019

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.




Please like and share us on Facebook and send your own submissions of poetry, fiction, art, and photography to editor Thomas L. Vaultonburg at vaultonburg@gmail.com


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