CONTRACTOR
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/377/1/CONTRACTOR/Page1.html
Kevin Dobbs
Kevin Dobbs returned to the USA
recently after 18 years in Asia. He’s Dean of Language Arts and Fine
Arts at Yuba College in Northern California and has placed poems,
fiction, and essays in many journals and anthologies including Chelsea,
Raritan: a Quarterly Review, The New York Quarterly, Carolina
Quarterly, Florida Review, Sou’wester, Soundings East, Poet Lore,
Mid-American Review, Beloit Fiction Journal, Karamu, Gulf Stream, Writer’s Forum, and New Delta Review. By Kevin Dobbs
Published on 06/14/2009
I've just contracted
A twenty-thousand-square
Footer in B Hills
So that fat comedian
Has enough room
To screw as many
Virgins as he wants.
I'm slugging my gin, neat,
A twenty-thousand-square
Footer in B Hills
So that fat comedian
Has enough room
To screw as many
Virgins as he wants.
I'm slugging my gin, neat,
I've just contracted
A twenty-thousand-square
Footer in B Hills
So that fat comedian
Has enough room
To screw as many
Virgins as he wants.
I'm slugging my gin, neat,
From a gold plated flask.
My Caddy ragtop is down
And the whores along the strip
Want to run their fingers
Through my hair to turn
Themselves into stars.
My wife thought
It made her a star.
Now she hovers
Like a marquee, long enough
For a clean left hook.
I want her numb, numb
As Catalina fog. She stays
Home that way. When my
Youngest kid was born
My wife hardly had
A hair in her head.
I pulled it. I wanted her
Bald like an eagle
So she could dream of flight
And not get to. The four brats?
When I open the front door they
Come at me blowing snot
Like pigs. I stand
In the living room
Holding my arms out
Like wings. I'm strong enough
For two to swing
On each arm. I spin them
Around, around, around,
Then fling them into
The walls, the furniture.
They fly like eagles. . .
Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2006. All Rights Reserved.
A twenty-thousand-square
Footer in B Hills
So that fat comedian
Has enough room
To screw as many
Virgins as he wants.
I'm slugging my gin, neat,
From a gold plated flask.
My Caddy ragtop is down
And the whores along the strip
Want to run their fingers
Through my hair to turn
Themselves into stars.
My wife thought
It made her a star.
Now she hovers
Like a marquee, long enough
For a clean left hook.
I want her numb, numb
As Catalina fog. She stays
Home that way. When my
Youngest kid was born
My wife hardly had
A hair in her head.
I pulled it. I wanted her
Bald like an eagle
So she could dream of flight
And not get to. The four brats?
When I open the front door they
Come at me blowing snot
Like pigs. I stand
In the living room
Holding my arms out
Like wings. I'm strong enough
For two to swing
On each arm. I spin them
Around, around, around,
Then fling them into
The walls, the furniture.
They fly like eagles. . .
Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2006. All Rights Reserved.