Thursday, June 25, 2015

Ben Newell- Three Poems

off the road 
I saw my neighbor this morning,
the hot blonde
with the silver Accord coupe;
were waiting at the same
Not the first time this has happened;
I routinely see
my fellow tenants
out there on the savage streets
we drive in for another day.
I recognize their cars,
often wondering where they work
and what they do
if they hate their jobs
much as I hate mine.
As a safety measure,
I pretend that they do—
I’d be tempted to tailgate
even run one of those happily
fulfilled fuckers
the road
and, hopefully, into a concrete
bridge abutment
where their car would ignite
they would die a slow death
in flames

mr. whipple is dead and so is our friendship  
Shortly after college
I moved in with an old high school friend,
a reunion of sorts
as we had attended different universities
in disparate areas of the state.
But the arrangement didn’t work out;
I knew we were doomed
when he bitched about my buying
cheap toilet paper—
“That shit rubs me raw,”
he said.  “Get some Charmin
or Cottonelle.  Get some fucking
Quilted Northern, dude.  What
the hell were you thinking . . .”
Silly as it seems
this really was the beginning of the end
for us.
Being the son of a wealthy physician,
he was accustomed to such
And being the son of a cop,
I thought nothing of using the coarse
stuff, which I still buy to this day,
thinking of my old friend
with each and every wipe,
especially when I draw blood.

kicking off another kickass summer  
It’s Sunday
June 21st
12:10 p.m.
The first official day of summer
Father’s Day
I just returned from the corner store where I purchased $15 worth of gas
and a six-pack of Busch [tallboys]
The guy in front of me purchased a bottle of Aquafina and a pack of Seneca cigarettes
[menthols] [shorts]
The temperature is hovering in the mid-90s, factor in the humidity
and it feels more like 104
This has been a strange weekend, strange in that I haven’t masturbated; I spent Friday
and Saturday nights glued to my laptop, watching various cam models do their thing,
but something was off
I suspect depression exacerbated by vocational misery and excessive
alcohol consumption
Or maybe the Lexapro has finally incinerated my sex drive, perhaps when I’m done with this poem
I’ll try the pool
Sunday is the best day; the young, lithe hotties will be out in droves, funning and sunning
and drinking cans of Bud Light [lime]
The ubiquitous bronzed boyfriends will be there, yet this presents no obstacle;
they won’t be able to see my eyes as I’ll be wearing dark sunglasses, effectively concealing
the keyholes to what’s left of my libidinous soul
It’s Sunday
June 21st
12:48 p.m.
The first official day of summer
Father’s Day
Do you know where your daughter is?
Ben Newell, 43, works as a library clerk in Jackson, Mississippi.  He used to be a pretty damn good skateboarder until he became too old and too uninsured.  Now he writes poems, some appearing and/or forthcoming in Chiron Review, Dead Snakes, The Mas Tequila Review, Nerve Cowboy, Pink Litter, and others . . . 

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