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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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JASON HUSKEY
Broken Subplot In The Scheme Of John One day he'll think it foolish, his arm cradling the body to the wet alley aside the cold revolver. He won't remember any of it. Not the pistol-whip introduction of a man three-times his size. Not his overbite stabbing, scraping at the bricks, how his molars loosened. His brain will lie about the feel of himself easing out, oozing down the inches of his inseam. He'll never remember overtaking the bastard, how he broke the calm across his spine-- how tenderly the bones could cry to the night with only a whisper of strength. One day he'll think it foolish, how he should have just taken the shot. He'll recall the voice of God that night, advising him to be a good lamb and fall. These words of counsel echoing in the damp nights to come, the same terms his wife will lament come the first of spring. This Black Fear The black fear sits inside her stomach uneasy like a bubble of bile, of coarse hair, of tobacco juice oil gurgling up into the dark spaces. A midnight Cadillac waiting in the silhouette of Third and Third on a hell of a note. Her slimming dress wrinkles about her nethers; the baited pit of her red-lipped seduction tingles in the moonless air. The streetlights zap dead, sizzling under their new masks like the men in shadows buzzing out of the dark nooks-- this building pulse she cannot escape. This black fear is all she knows: black-gloved hands and black intension, creeping out of the night and into her thoughts of evil men and bad intentions, groping at her with bruised fingernails-- decaying teeth gnashing in the back alley of the Black Cat Saloon. She licks the black jack whiskey from their rotten tongues in a spotlight glimpse of salvation. Hides beneath the closed lids, fearing traitorous senses as the pitch consumes her-- memories of the again and again of her mother's wicked hands a hundred times worse than the coarseness these men keep. That New Car Smell The rain's come again, streaking beads along leather interior; day six, and they still haven't found her. The TV weatherman predicted less than what we got; said it'd be sunny today; worse at his job than Jamie was. And all she had to do was remain faithful and not burn the chicken casserole. In the end, she could do neither. The rain's come again, depreciating loverboy's down payment like the naked bodies decomposing in the trunk. I must say, Lee Iacocca hit it like the man who nailed my wife-- I bought the same model yesterday; even paid extra for a CD sound system and chrome rims. But this convertible has failed to give me a rise like his did that night. If only the sweat-soaked scent of murder came as standard as the perfume of a perfect purchase, would I be joining her joyously in the heaven or hell she'd see fit. The Industry After The IPO She sat cockeyed in her pinto-bean Chevette, uneven nails digging nervous canyons through her silk pants. A million lies scratching into her rehearsal-- Dean's list, Honors, Sister/Pledge/Something of LIT, or some horseshit. Fifteen minutes till the shiver of spine, the tingle along the inseam, sweaty handshakes, and cocky old farts looking down their crooked noses. The daughter of a diplomat, a gymnastics champion, she knew in the end it would all be about her end-- no matter the tale; she'd disrobe before the chamber, the weight of a breast against her name. A g-string genius in a cat suit clawing, ready for the scene with the funky music trembling. She slides out of the whimpering car like a woman ready to take a fat one for the world. Mr. Huskey holds a B.A. in English Literature. His work has appeared in 34thParallel, Perigee: Publication for the Arts, Red River Review, and Word Riot, and is forthcoming in Aoife's Kiss. He currently resides in central Virginia. |
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© 2008 Underground Voices |
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