I.
kid behind the counter
working for me
clean cut
good skin
good teeth
good family probably
reads guns and ammo
and likes to
shoot things
on the weekend
like targets
and animals
and he mentions
music sort
of by the
way, listens
to top 40 and
rap not connected
to the guns and
the ammo
but we are
all, like it or not,
totally
laced together.
II.
I drive home, now
down a winding
two land road
with the mouths
of corporate
subdivisions
opening on
either side
swallowing
and spitting
out white
people not
smiling behind
oversized
windshields
always so
tinted, shining
their faces and
the sun right at me.
III.
she is standing
at the showroom
telling me about
it and she is
middle-aged
like a grandmother
and tall like an
ostrich and she
sifts on her feet
and her long
full white
hair doesn't
move and there
is a mention of
Rush Limbaugh
and the real
reason why
gas is so
expensive and how
I should really
listen to Rush
and I just
want her to
buy some
god damned
tires already,
and she keeps
on looking at
the treads like
they were shoes
or pieces of fruit
and my circumstances
don't let me
tell her that I don't
have time for
Rush or really
any use for her.
you can't stop the poems.
they flow like an open wound that just won't clot.
and so the poems come,
you type and send and wait.
and sometimes there's nothing in return
and money,
there's never any money in your poems
but that's how your life has gone,
a lot of blood and poems and not a lot of money.
your wife, the keeper of the keys and checks,
loves you but hates being poor,
so she says why not write a screenplay?
you know, send it to Hollywood
or maybe write a romance novel,
like Danielle Steele or somebody
I bet Danielle Steele has a lot of money, your wife says.
a lot of people have a lot of money, you say.
and you tried writing the screenplay,
you broke a sweat trying to write the screenplay.
you stabbed yourself in the heart trying to write the screenplay
but there was no blood in the screenplay.
and romance novels, forget it,
ask your wife
you pushed her over before
you swept her off of her feet.
there is music on the radio,
jazz, classical, world.
there is coffee and
a book being read at the
kitchen table and the
sun rises in a hazy
sky and the silver light
is split by the
bare trees as
it pours through
the kitchen window
and the kitchen
is comfortable
and cluttered,
stacks of magazines
and lists, pens
and reminder notes,
fruit and utensils
spread here and there.
the music plays.
my son wakes
up, wants the
TV on but I
tell him no,
I tell him
to come in
the kitchen,
to sit down,
relax, enjoy
the dawn and
the solitude.
he wants cereal.
I get it, one of
his favorites
and I know
the morning
is over, the
solitude is
poisoned
as I pour
the cereal
in the bowl,
multicolored
circles of
BHT, sugar,
Blue #1 and
Yellow #5.
I pour the milk
over the vitamin
fortified multigrains
mixed with
Pyridoxine Hydrochloride.
I drop in a silver spoon
and my son eats.
the music plays.
the sun starts to shine
and I go back to my
book, something light
and easy, something
to poison my mind.
David LaBounty lives in Royal Oak, Michigan with his wife and two young sons. He served in the Navy for four years and worked at a gold mine in the Nevada desert. He's had jobs as a mechanic, a reporter and a salesman. His novel, The Trinity, has just been released by Silverthought Press.