Poem Number Three.

Yeah, I said it, and I meant it. This is the tip of the iceberg, Onstad, you fool, and I am unleashing HUNDREDS of these poems on you in the coming months. You know you screwed up this time.

- - -

The Dust Bowl (Untitled)

With Auntie Mae
We wash the dishes in the
tin tub.

Supper was corn cakes;
we traded the
map of Albuquerque
for the frying
lard.

Hard lines in her face;
if she were a car; ...rusted.

She joined us, shaken,
having lost everything , — ,
her children perished
at her dry teat

She can never
make it up
to her God.

- - -

Good luck sleeping tonight, Onstad, you clown. Yeah, you picked the wrong guy to fuck over a barrel. I'll be destroying you again in a couple days.

From,
Pat.

Poem Number Two.

Alright, Onstad, you pudknocker. I know you've been checking this site every hour waiting for my next poem to drop. Here it is, dirtcrap. Boy, you really need to learn how to pick your battles, don't you? --> :) <--

- - -

Even In Michigan

Tamara calls to her mother
across the room.
The air
the reek
filthy carpet
cigarettes
humid.

Tamara is five.
Her mother
nineteen.
Nineteen.
The girl has no clue
Across the room;
dead;
her mother.

The poison from the hand
of the corner crack man.
Threw a clot;
lost a lot.
Thrombosis
is a cruel
Mistress.

- - -

This poem is EXTREMELY moving and another example of my devastating work using mother/child imagery. Do you think you can keep up, Onstad? You DUMBASS?!

Oh, there's more where this came from. My journal is as deep as the waters of the disenfranchised. I won't be letting up anytime soon.

Pick your battles, dirtcrap.

Screw You!

Apparently Chris Onstad has been paying everyone but me to write poetry lately! Well, when I found out about this I saw red and rang that moron up. He knows PERFECTLY WELL that I am a published poet with reams of material that deserves further exposure. Too good for my poetry? Well, The New Burlington Old River Review certainly wasn't!

I called him up and read him my latest, most impactful piece — a piece that has just devastated everyone at Support Group. I didn't even say hello when he picked up, I just launched right into it:

- - -

Hunger (Untitled)

K'elato,
Ethiopia.
Famine.
The mother nurses the child;
Only dust
Comes from her teat.
He will die soon
(the child),
And then
The mother
From grief.

- - -

This poem is an incredible statement on starvation and the mother/child bond. The imagery is terrifyingly imaginable, and the mother's grief universal. That bastard had the nerve to tell me he'd pay me $2.48 not to publish it in my blog (I actually heard him rummaging in his pockets as he decided the amount, and heard coins jingling while he sorted them and verbally counted them out). I don't need to tell you that I hung up on him so hard that small cracks formed in places on the base of the cordless phone receiver.

Here you go, you piece of crap. Here is my poem, and hundreds more are to follow. Never mess with me, not ever. I will crush you.