Daniel Romo
danjromo@gmail.com
Bio (auto)
| Daniel Romo’s recent poems can be found in The Legendary, Zygote in My Coffee, and Pop Art: An Anthology of Southern California Poetry. He is an MFA candidate in poetry at Antioch University. He lives in Long Beach, CA and bleeds Dodger Blue. A lot. More of his blood can be found at danielromo.wordpress.com |
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The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Daniel Romo and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Open Like Sky
The small black man with cornrows
that look like a perfectly tamed fleet of corn snakes,
doesn’t know I’ve been watching him—
How the soles of his running shoes
can’t quite touch the floor.
How he squeezes out every ounce from
......his teabag
into his cup
and lowers the rest
......down his throat thirsty for more.
How someone else with a dirty mind
might be picturing
a beautiful naked woman lying on her back,
her mouth a raunchy open invitation,
......her high heels spiking the clouds.
Attention
You pulled out an extra hundred dollar bill from the teller. It’s crisp
and feels like an expensive suit you’ll never wear. Tastes like a rich
dessert after you’re already full. Smells the way midlife crisis sports
car upholstery smells in your dreams, the ones where you’re taller
and have better posture. The patriotic fibers bleed into your fingertips
causing everything you touch to be left with imprints of stars and
stripes. The paper towel dispenser in the bathroom at Walmart. The
salt and pepper shakers at the Mexican restaurant. Your lover's
breasts. You wipe your brow in an act of surrender wondering when
this Betsy Ross B.S. will end. A liverspotted veteran walks by and
salutes you.
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Gerald Bosacker
richardcody460@comcast.net
Bio (auto)
| I am Gerald Bosacker, a prolific poet and short story writer who is woefully undiscovered by the paying public, but lavishly displayed worldwide, pro bono. Sidetracked from academic study at the University of Minnesota by economic necessity, I converted my part time sales job to full time career. Over the years, I became a successful sales person and rose to Senior Vice President of Sales for a large International Graphic Arts company. I discovered that I was horribly inept in corporate politics and sought retirement at the first opportunity, and after a forty year delay, declared myself a writer. See more of Bosacker's wit at http://www.bosackerbooks.com/ |
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The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Gerald Bosacker and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Casanova Cried
A sleepless Casanova glumly eyed
his impudent sentry, aflame,
standing erect, purpled with pride.
Was it just crimsoned blush of shame
that now colored his fickle friend?
Maybe leftover sweets now spewed
out from sour grapes that teasing send
remnants of past night acts re-brewed?
Or could it be, that nether member,
only now, alert and awake, would choose
to dance round the May Pole in November.
Slumbering through calls to arms. We lose
esteem with each eager fair flower
poised to bloom. Those blooms ignored
while open and fulgent, soon sour
or brown, and emanate discord,
that all other blossoms will see.
Casanova eyed his standing spear,
with vile contempt. “They will find me,
exhibiting the passion of a steer
I too, now blush from cowardice!
It ages my face with shame,
in fear that when I rise to piss,
you will deflate, hang limp and lame.
You are the same age as I. How
can you wear out while I still feel
the young man’s needs. Why now
when I most need love, does your steel
backbone turn to limp spaghetti?.
Grateful Ladies once tore apart their best
nightgowns to make contrite confetti
to salute my lusty conquest.
The rest of Casanova died of shame
when his admiring crowd turned wary
when passing years had doused his flame
and left his shaft too soft to bury.
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