Monday, August 1, 2016

David Spicer


I’ve lost my humor: my false
teeth surround their tongue,
threaten to chew it next time it
flickers, stomach accepts nothing
but charcuterie, and feet demand
to amble on dunes. I guess I’ll buy
a bus or plane ticket to Key West,
where I’ll hide out with an online
sweetheart—a folk-singing nun named
Dominique—under a resort parasol.
We’ll hide out a week, swap recipes
for Long Island Teas, Miami Vices,
and Blue Hawaiians. No habits
except drinking and screwing,
so I hope my nightmare will end soon,
but a subpoena may be waiting:
my name is linked to a shipjack
because I have a rap sheet longer
than a yacht. I’d like to remain
a complete stranger to everyone
but Dominique, even though I
receive catalogues of mugs,
paintings, and buckskin jackets
illustrated with playing cards.
I might look for my twin there
and confront her about my cut
of the robbery. Maybe I’ll pour
myself a Grasshopper or tell
Dominique I’m now her manager.
Hell, on second thought my garden
needs weeding, and I can find another
crazy girlfriend on the Internet.

Gerald So reads "On the Internet":

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David confesses: "I'm fascinated how life on the lam is, how criminals perform misdeeds, embrace relationships, and enjoy good times. The Internet makes this possible by supplying a resourceful fugitive a little anonymity, but a felonious life still contains complications--however, they can be decreased by cynical humor."

DAVID SPICER has had poems in Yellow Mama, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, In Between Hangovers, The American Poetry Review, Easy Street, Ploughshares, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, and in A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Pushcart, is the author of one full-length collection of poems and four chapbooks, and is the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee.

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