locust july
by JUSTIN HYDE
the little
rough looking blond
tells me
her kidneys
used to be stacked up
on the left side.
surgery
straightened it out
but now she’s got this scar
and can’t drink
hard liquor anymore.
her and her husband
live up the hill
nights like tonight
when they can’t get a sitter
for their three year old
they take turns
coming down.
sure-yea
-intonation
-reciprocity.
the bartender
and a few other guys
stare up at the tv:
some
best-of
prank show:
a woman
smears butter
on the bathroom floor
while her husband
takes a shower.
pratfall-guffaw
-chasm
-suicide
via neutered
group-think
-their hyena laughter
hits me
like blood spatter.
i’ve spent the last
ten years
in bars like this.
i used to think
it was
regenerative
catalytic
a plausible means
for approach
and dissection
of truth.
but it’s
just another
false canvas
where unoriginal souls
lick recycled
wounds.
are you always
so quiet?
the blond asks.
yes,
i tell her
turning my shot-glass
upside down.
i set it
on the bar
and walk out
into a
locust july.
if i catch the right on 27th a little behind schedule
by JUSTIN HYDE
i get stuck behind a school-bus.
it makes four stops
down a seven block stretch
before i can hang a left on mlk
and dip down to work.
they get off
in small clusters
shoving each other
shouting things like:
gimme me that phone nigger
&
bitch
better have my sweater
monday.
none of them
carry school bags
of any kind.
today
a kid broke out
the back window of the bus
with a rock
as it drove away
(it didn’t stop).
as i drive by
they shoot me
grim insect death.
i just smile back lamely
trying to be broad-minded
as to their potentiality
down the road.
but some ancient coal
fans
down near the bowels.
not that i personally
wish them harm
or that i entertain
the merits of
selective genocide.
but neither
am i immune
to this taste of homicide
on my tongue.
twenty-two
by JUSTIN HYDE
drunk
in downtown chicago
with my bank-examiner coworkers.
married
fifteen years older than me
you held me tight on the dance floor –
fingernails in my back
like an owl’s talons.
that look in your eyes
confused me –
at that age
i still didn’t really understand passion
let alone passion
under wax
in a loveless
middle aged marriage.
you probably thought
i was queer
leaving you
in the elevator
like that.
but i was just too naive
and scared
to invite you
to my room.
Justin Hyde lives in Iowa where he works as a correctional officer. He’s had work published in a wide spectrum of magazines ranging from The Iowa Review and the New York Quarterly to various on-line publications. More of his work can be found here: http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/justinhyde.
Editorial Note: (Please Read Closely Before Submitting)
To submit to Poets’ Basement, send an e-mail to CounterPunch’s poetry editor, Marc Beaudin at counterpunchpoetry@gmail.com with your name, the titles being submitted, and your website url or e-mail address (if you’d like this to appear with your work). Also indicate whether or not your poems have been previously published and where. For translations, include poem in original language and documentation of granted reprint/translation rights. Attach up to 5 poems and a short bio, written in 3rd person, as a single Word Document (.doc or .rtf attachments only; no .docx – use “Save As” to change docx or odt files to “.doc”). Expect a response within one month (occasionally longer during periods of heavy submissions).
Poems accepted for online publication will be considered for possible inclusion of an upcoming print anthology.
For more details, tips and suggestions, visit CrowVoiceJournal.blogspot.com and check the links on the top right. Thanks!
