Featured Poet, Issue 3
The Onion Poem I suggest when you have a writer's block start peeling each overlapping line of your poem and create a paper ball that can be fitted inside a tube
of thickened paper also called cardboard, i.e., hardened tubular papier-mâché like those
sophisticated in the French tongue would call it. It goes like this with the first line spelling,
how do cars avoid driving straight to the beach?
Were they to use a metaphor like the abysmal
undulating void it would be so much more poetical.
The next line asks, may a woman lift a car if her child does not wear a seat belt?
The answer is of course she can because that woman
is amazing. It goes on to say that the ugly state of American
politics is easy to understand when you consider
the fact that so few Americans are exposed to murals
of people holding hands. That's because they would consider it oh so much
And is it ethical for prenatal testing to tell you if your baby will be too annoying to love. Of course there're a lot of tips to spice up your
sex life but I'll mention only one:
Do it standing or sitting A.S.A.P. because the onion
may not open its heart tomorrow. Just think for a moment that flanked by your tears and while climate change decimates coffee crops I'll be crying deep between the onion skins.
The New Driveway
In my morphemic state of mind I was
a giant. Twice taller than the rest
of the party attending my recently built
alleyway celebratory grand opening.
During the whole process I felt physically
uncomfortable suspecting it was the leftover
scar tissue of the crazy glue that was used
to suture my torso to my lower trunk
that ended being slightly off the spinal center.
No sooner the realization sank into my fire-
water inebriated brain that everything fell
into place. My father, who now has been
dead for thirty years, was standing at
the bottom of my new cobblestone driveway
and was frowning about the poor quality
of the labor. I heard him tell his old friend
Victor Victorovitch standing next to him,
who also died about as long ago, that he
wanted a new contingent of fresh laborers
to repair the botched job.
The funny part was I heard him insisting
that it had to be done real cheap. Of course
what crossed my mind was that you get
what you pay for but I inherited that trait
of his and to this day even in my poetry
I try to get away from being too profound
and like our fake president I blame it all
on our imported alien slave laborers
also called illegal immigrants. Of course
our natives wouldn't work for such vassal
wages since they own casinos nor would
they stoop to spread sand
in the interstices of the neatly laid out
cobblestones. Their time now is more
valuable than doing the rain dance
for the tourists.