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Bella
by Wayne Przybylowski
A tempest in a teapot Elliot
Her finger traced its painted stem
I’ll need the cups to match
This one isn’t good
There has got to be something wrong
Get some clothes for the baby
Some food too
At least they’ve paved the parking lot
Nothing will get broken
Palm trees can’t grow in the desert
There’s the bearded man again
rolling down his car window
Why was he always so formal?
He always shakes her hand
She put the ten dollar bill
in the pocket of her skirt
One last look at the mountains
She must have lost her sunglasses
Home isn’t far
Take the shortcut
Pebbles always get stuck in the wheels
The rug goes first
from the buggy
Now the teapot
Wipe the baby’s plastic face
Next the pillow and blanket
on the grass
under the tree
where no one can see
Tonight this is home
Starry night Elliot
Copyright © 2008 Wayne Przybylowski
Barfly
by Wayne Przybylowski
It could have been Tangiers
Maybe it was the Village
those concrete steps
worn, not at all perfect
weathered like the clientele
which devise the dimly lit
cauldron of conversation
Ernest is usually there
sometimes alone
sometimes with woman child
“It’s easier getting in than getting out”
A man says to his buddy
His buddy nods from stupor
Lady traces the rim of her glass
to keep the fly away
She would like to sit with Ernest
but woman child has his attention
It’s late afternoon
Now woman child is waving the fly away
Five o’clock, round six
Lady still sitting alone staring into her glass
She sits in the same place everyday
She can’t remember when she was woman child
Woman child and Ernest support each other
as they make their way up the steps
“It’s easier getting into this place”
Ernest says to woman child
She smiles
The barfly whizzes past into the night
along dimly lit streets
Copyright © 2008 Wayne Przybylowski
All Night
by Wayne Przybylowski
No baby, I don’t like that
No baby, I can’t do that
No baby, I won’t do that
I’ll have em sunny side up
Coffee black
Bacon instead of ham
My feet hurt in these shoes
Too cold to be outside
Hey, Get lost
More coffee
Your daughter’s how old?
Thanks, you too
I thought I told you
No
Oh, all right
Now the money
Hey baby, now don’t forget
I’ve told you a million times
Come straight home
Don’t talk to strangers
Lock the door after I leave
Copyright © 2008 Wayne Przybylowski
Stencil Girl: Zombies of the Night
by Marie Percutant
A street light flickers shades of amber anticipation
across your dark shadow. “One-of-a-Kind” peers
at you on the backside of an old brewery
in T-Town.
Your final touch, a trademark, known by all and
applied with a flourish known by none except your
blood-red can of high gloss and your
treasured cardboard cutout.
You unfold the stencil like a flag and tape it to the wall,
artistically measuring the light before dawn…you spray
feverishly absorbing your creation through jittery eyes,
stinging nostrils, and taser-town nerves of steel.
Satisfied that all was finished in record time---no one
saw you come---no one saw you go, you slither
off avoiding night watchmen, rusted cans, and garbage
left by zombies of the night.
Copyright © 2008 Marie Percutant
Chatter on the Net
by Marie Percutant
Around the world doors are opening,
eyes are blinking, and minds are sinking.
This is your last chance to satisfy your
curiosity, step out and dance the
royal shuffle.
The duchess has big hair and the pirates
are atoning---at least that explains why
liberty holds the audience in line,
a line that packs a punch as much as the
sound of crystal crashing unheard amongst
Essex folk.
Somewhat odd that anyone so unsure would
use a reference to The Collider being tested
on the Franco-Swiss border. The art of the
spoken giving lessons to mere infants unaware
of the Ichiban dining experience. Number one
is lost in translation.
Copyright © 2008 Marie Percutant
ABC Yo-Yo Zingers
by Marie Percutant
A is for American bulimic CRTs
depicting effervescent fools guzzling
haughtily in journalistic Kamasutra,
laying monotonous networks of pomp.
Quirky ratings steaming thermal
undergarments veiled with
x-rated yammering zippers.
B is for Broadcasting channel devils
erotically feeding guilty hearts
into jugs kept limply morose. Naughty
organic programmers quilting
reruns so television’s underdressed
vixens whip x-rayed yelling zealots.
C is for Company depressed erections
forming glandular histrionics indulging
jealous kisses lost momentarily. Now
oppressive parents quell revving
soapy teenyboppers under very
watchful XXX yo-yo zingers.
Copyright © 2008 Marie Percutant
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