if there's any irony to be culled at this point in the narrative

it's that here
thirty-two years old

stocky
like a union pipe fitter

clothes from goodwill

driving
a dented up
kia rio

i pull
three times
the pussy
i did at twenty-two

when i had
the body
of a gymnast

a shiny black
celica gt

and a closet
full of
tight fitting
euro trash.

by Justin Hyde

angie

by Justin Hyde

was my cubicle mate

when i was

a bank examiner.

she chewed her fingernails

and

gnawed her cuticles

until her fingers

were bright red

sores.

she told me

as a teenager

she'd gone from two-fifty

to one-fifty

by eating nothing but

unbuttered popcorn

and swallowing bottles

of phentermine.

while in chicago

for training

we ended up drunk

in her room.

this is why

i'll never get

a husband,

she said

lifting her shirt.

the skin was

shriveled

and hung down

below her waist.

i slid off

the edge of the bed

and slowly pulled her shirt

up and over

her shoulders.

don't underestimate

yourself,

i said

and unhooked her bra

and kissed

from waist

to neck.

you don't have to

feel sorry

for me,

she said.

i told her

it had nothing to do

with pity.

then i

ran her hands

over the buttons

of my shirt

and we

stopped

talking.

the last five days

by Justin Hyde

i've been suspended from work
without pay
for abusing sick leave.

got it in my head
to go the whole stint
without speaking
to another human.

almost made it
but sitting at the laundry-mat
struggling through
descartes' ineptitude
a little hispanic girl
appeared over top.

she winked
and said: mister
hold onto this
no matter what
don't say anything
pinky swear?

i pinky swore
and closed a
red matchbox car
in my fist.

pretty soon
an older hispanic kid
was rooting around
under all the tables.

my benefactor
followed him.
coy smile
plastered on her face.

he started crying
making a scene.

his mother said
if he didn't calm down
she was going
to spank him.

i want my car!
he stomped
his foot.

mama took him out
and we saw him
get a thrashing
through the window.

she winked at me.

i winked back.

not sure why she did it

but i've been a big brother

i'm sure

the little bastard

had it coming.

a theme

by Justin Hyde

when they
turn off my electricity
for nonpayment

or tow my car
out of my
work parking lot
for the same reason

or i
wake up
on a foreign couch
having drained my bank account
for a party i
can't remember.

it's only
at the bottom
of the chipped cup
i consider reconciling
with my ex wife.

we meet
for dinner

quit drinking

see a shrink

she goes on
and on
with her manifesto
of pragmatic
castration:

a cold
metal rod
upside my head

recalling
vividly

those years of
napalm
sunrise.

why i'm giving sobriety a chance

by Justin Hyde

i can't have six

seven beers a

nice safe guffaw

through center soul

it's twelve

thirteen

and five or six shots

coming to naked

on a strange couch

sandpaper of a siamese cat

licking blood off my knee

band saw

and a roofing crew

off in the distance

neck and neck

with a

chorus of hammers

in my head.

at the waveland, 10:23am on a tuesday

by Justin Hyde

the man one stool over, lifeless eyes
like a pair of black marbles.
he tells me the old men
on the other side of the bar
remind him of his father.
says his parents divorced last march
after thirty-three years of marriage.
his dad committed suicide two months later.
i ask him what his father was like.
my old man was hitler
but he was mine, he says
looking toward me
but not at me. the overhead tv
talks about the recession.
everyone's taking their hunk of flesh, he says
tells me his jew landlord
raised his rent fifty dollars a month
didn't have the balls to do it in person
slid a note under the door
like a rat
in the middle of the night. man can only take so much
it's just a matter of time, he says.
till what? i ask.
till i hurt myself, hurt others, he says.
the sun is at window level
lighting up the dust
swirling around us like a snow-globe.
i ask what's holding him back.
this
but just barely, he says
twirling a dull silver cross
between his thumb
and forefinger.

3:39am in the hospital lobby

by Justin Hyde

my mother let my father
come and go
as he pleased.

when he did
finally show
it was often shit-faced
and reeking of perfume.

i didn't fully understand
why she put up with it
until i was
twenty-nine:

i physically
threw her ass
out of my house
after catching her
in the bathroom
needle in arm
right before
she was going to babysit
my son.

i called my dad.
take care of your wife
asshole,
i said
and hung up.

then i got scared
mom might go off
and kill herself.
(she'd tried it before)

so i called her cell
and told her i'd let
dad know
what happened.

did he say
he was gonna leave me?
she whimpered
in a voice
that froze
my spine.

some women
truly believe
no one else
will ever
love them.

these three fresh stitches
in my gut
from a steak-knife
remind me
my wife is not
one of them.

my new landlord

by Justin Hyde

a sandy-blond
milf

named maria.

i'm so excited
to have a poet
for a tenant,
she said
when i
signed the lease.

i didn't tell her
i was a poet.
she discovered it
googling my name
after i
filled out
the application.

i like your stuff a-lot
most poetry is
so hard to follow
but i really felt
the emotions
you were going for,
she said
and told me her sister
teaches poetry
at creighton university -

she's going to tell her
all about my work.

i don't know
if you're married

or have a man
maria.

but i have
a good feeling
about us:

a stout
synergy of torque
at the
fulcrum.

and now
in my own
cryptic way

i begin
to court you.

knees

by Justin Hyde

the left clicks audibly
like a suicidal cricket
and the right often puffs up like
roadkill possum
becoming just as useful.
just over thirty
and the body is rejecting me
faster than credit card companies.
next comes the bloating of flank
and general sausaging of features.
then it's going to be long odds
charming the young women with shaved slits
and virgin assholes
from behind their cash registers.
but a hell-bound lech like me
has too much paste in him
to put the dick to pasture
because of mobility issues
and dwindling aesthetics.
when i go completely seed
i'm going to sit on a five gallon bucket
in front of women's restrooms
with a single rose between my teeth
and gun them down
venus flytrap style.

advice to the newly divorced

by Justin Hyde

the bald car salesman
with a face
the color of a stoplight
tried setting me straight
couple months back
over jaeger bombs
at the waveland:

whatever you do
don't' fuck your ex wife
she'll think it means something.
trust me he said
you're better off
sticking a baseball bat
or a soup can
up your asshole
than
screwing your ex wife.

but i couldn't help it.

she pressed flank
and i ran the happy stick
up in her.

now i'm on trial
in the living room
just like old times:

think you can just
fuck me
whenever you want?
it meant
something to me
i thought we were going
to talk and
work on things
but i’ts about you
like always.

i exhale deeply

slowly run palms
down my thighs

making a silent promise
i probably
won't keep.

memorial day at the twisted parrot

by Justin Hyde

guy on my right
is down on himself

couldn't get cash together
to make it up to minnesota

says he goes every year
mows and pulls weeds
around his grandparent's graves.

i buy him a cuervo
tell him
don't be so hard on yourself
you'll get up there when you can
they'd understand.

yeah - - yeah
they probably would understand,
he says
perking up suddenly
buys me a cuervo
pats me on the back.

he gets up to piss

i notice his right leg
is half size of the other
and bent like a wish-bone
at the knee.

where's your shoe rick?
i ask
when he comes back
helping him up onto the
bar-stool.

it's missing off the foot
on his
withered right leg.

he stares down at it
a good three minutes

rubs his temples

then buries himself
in his elbow.

tells me
nothing's gone right
since he lost his job
selling pots and pans
door to door
back in seventy-nine.

christmas

by Justin Hyde

doubled
as my father's
birthday.

there was no
celebration.

he'd sit
end of the couch
one leg
over the other

countenance of
an owl pellet

as my sister
and i
opened our presents
in silence

my mother

doped up
on stolen
painkillers

trying to act
excited.

which just
made it
worse.

drunk at the kitchen table with my grandmother

by Justin Hyde

she tells me
they were too poor
to get a divorce

otherwise
she would have
cut grandpa loose
for sure.

grandpa's underground.
drank himself
to death
three years ago.

the little cemetery
can be seen
from the
kitchen window.

i've always had a
gut feeling
he did things
to my mom
and aunts.

but i don't dare
ask grandma
about it.

i'm afraid
she'd be
honest.

instead
i pour us
two more
high balls

&

ask her
to tell me again
how my great
grandmother
made actual
potato sack dresses
for her
and her sister
when their farm
went belly up
during the
depression.

not all women are cunts

by Justin Hyde

we parked her car
in front of the old farmhouse
where i rented a room.

i’d picked her up at
denny arthurs,
which is the old-folks bar in des moines
i often went to
when closing time approached
and i’d struck out
elsewhere.

i undid my pants,
put her hand
on it.

she
worked it,
then she put her head
down there.

then these
small
dry sobs.

told me
she was living
with a man,
he was good
to her three kids.

she didn’t love him,
but he didn’t deserve
this.

i pulled my pants up,
watched her
drive away.

i flicked the kitchen lights on,
cockroaches scurried
behind the stove
and down
the garbage disposal.

i sat quiet
at the kitchen table
for some time.

feeling very much
like one of
them.

a dull lady with big calves

buys me
a shot of tequila
at the twisted parrot
on a
tuesday night.

lynyrd skynyrd
on the
jukebox

she tells me
someday
she wants a house
on a cul-de-sac

three children

and a cache
of
snowmobiles.

staring listlessly
at the cubs
on the overhead tv

i wait for some lightning
smoke signals
any sign of life
or a little madness
out of her:

but all she says
is something
about her
thursday night
dart-league

&

a tick
the size of a walnut
she pulled off
her beagle.

i told myself
i wouldn't
fuck idiots
anymore:

but it seems
the world offers little
beyond dull ladies
with big calves.

i order us
a double of
black velvet.

she opens her cell-phone
and chortles
a chorus of zeros
into it.

i shoulder back
to check
her ass.

i wait

&

wait.

by Justin Hyde

plan b

by Justin Hyde

we ate drive-through burritos
on her living room couch. that picture of a horse
taped to her refrigerator.
it was drawn by her eight year old daughter. she
was at grandma's in cedar rapids for the night.
then we were in the shower. i always got them
in the shower first. she had freckles
and deep sagging ravines
at the top of her breasts. dark red
heat-marks underneath them.
wait, she said. are you sure you wanted me
not my friend?
i'd been pursuing her friend
the whole night at the bar. but her boyfriend showed
and i turned to plan b.
i wanted you off the bat
but you seemed aloof
a little stuck up
but you're not at all, i said
tucking strands of red hair
behind her ears.

truck-stop ghost

by Justin Hyde

they call you
the truck-stop ghost,
says the new overnight janitor
stepping out back.
just another third shift insomniac,
i smile
trying not to stare
at the dragon tattoo
flying out from between her tits.
join the club,
she smiles
lights a cigarette
and offers me one.
i tell her i don't smoke.
good time as any to start,
she says
sliding one behind my ear.
i thank her for it
put my headphones back on
and shuffle out towards the highway
to watch the sun rise
with the one legged man
trying to hitch
to the
korean war memorial.

from the book of wtf?

by Justin Hyde

sitting at the bar
trying to detach your mind
from the crucible
of day to day
when she
taps your shoulder:

a tenth grade
high-school english teacher
named susan.

jesus your arm's
bigger around than my
thigh
i hope you don't mean me harm,
she smiles
inviting you to
check the circumference
of her thigh.

you tell her
her smile
lights up
the catacombs
from greece
to ethiopia

which makes her face
turn red.

lets you
buy her
a bud-light

tells you
she's designing
a whole unit
on alice in wonderland.

you tell her
she needs to
do a unit on
carver and bukowski.

she's never heard
of either of them
but writes it down
on a napkin.

you tell her
you have to
empty
the contents of
your bladder.

you're so
creative with words,
she smiles
and squeezes your neck
and says
hurry back.

not two minutes later
you do come back
and
she is gone.

gone brother.

nothing left

but her empty bud-light

and your
big
blue balls.

so long as humans cut a path

by Justin Hyde

there will be the poor

and those dutifully helping the poor

and those laughing

while turning both of them

into yachts.

on being asked about parental influence on my creative development as a child

by Justin Hyde

my mother
brought home a birthday card
for my half-sister
down in missouri.

write something nice
for billie-joe,
she said
handing me the card
and a pen
as i sat in front of the tv.

that summer
i'd spent a week down in missouri
with billie-joe and her mother.
she'd introduced me
to all her friends:

there was frog
a star wars geek
who worked in the video store.

i doodled a picture of him
on the back of the card
with the caption:
use the force you must
happy birthday
from the frog.

then there was her boyfriend jared.
he was on steroids
wore ridiculously tight t-shirts
and was always asking people to
touch his guns.

i drew a picture of him
with the caption:
i know it's your birthday baby
but tell me
how's the flex?

then i did two or three others

filling up
most of the blank space.

my mother said:
you ruined the card.

she ripped it down the middle

tossed it in the garbage

and i was
sent to my room for the night.