succumbed to the monsters.
No one realized their patience,
how strong they grew on the steak
he ate on Thursdays. A kitchen
with unclean windows,
a La-Z-Boy, a girl to bring the tray.
He wiped his mouth with a towel
and slept, dreamed Jap Zeros
in Akron’s abominable heat.
And still they waited, watching
Vanna spin vowels as he dozed,
then Trebek with his myriad
answers. When night fell
over Firestone Tire & Rubber,
they feasted on pork rinds
and his memory’s flesh--
the boys smoking Camels
on the shore at Kwajalein,
the girls of Okinawa, rhinestone-
soaked and ready to sin. Those days,
those endless days of betrayal
and pursuit—when Akron gleamed
with Hower High School girls
in skirts and he was young.
There were no monsters,
the whiskey bottles danced
at his bedside, and the women
on West Market found men
in the rain.
The night
I watched him die I knew
the monsters had won, tiny,
tenacious, sucking at his organs
the way children suck Tootsie Rolls,
obscene and with a sense of luck.
What did he say? Fuck this
and fuck you…his bloated frame
a spectacle in blue pajamas
cursing because I was young
and would leave. A Laura
was near, a Rebecca in the rain
with a red and white umbrella,
and no war.
Author Bio:
Carl Boon lives in Izmir, Turkey, where he teaches courses in American culture and literature at 9 Eylül University. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Burnt Pine, Two Peach, Lunch Ticket, and Poetry Quarterly. He is also a 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee.
No one realized their patience,
how strong they grew on the steak
he ate on Thursdays. A kitchen
with unclean windows,
a La-Z-Boy, a girl to bring the tray.
He wiped his mouth with a towel
and slept, dreamed Jap Zeros
in Akron’s abominable heat.
And still they waited, watching
Vanna spin vowels as he dozed,
then Trebek with his myriad
answers. When night fell
over Firestone Tire & Rubber,
they feasted on pork rinds
and his memory’s flesh--
the boys smoking Camels
on the shore at Kwajalein,
the girls of Okinawa, rhinestone-
soaked and ready to sin. Those days,
those endless days of betrayal
and pursuit—when Akron gleamed
with Hower High School girls
in skirts and he was young.
There were no monsters,
the whiskey bottles danced
at his bedside, and the women
on West Market found men
in the rain.
The night
I watched him die I knew
the monsters had won, tiny,
tenacious, sucking at his organs
the way children suck Tootsie Rolls,
obscene and with a sense of luck.
What did he say? Fuck this
and fuck you…his bloated frame
a spectacle in blue pajamas
cursing because I was young
and would leave. A Laura
was near, a Rebecca in the rain
with a red and white umbrella,
and no war.
Author Bio:
Carl Boon lives in Izmir, Turkey, where he teaches courses in American culture and literature at 9 Eylül University. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Burnt Pine, Two Peach, Lunch Ticket, and Poetry Quarterly. He is also a 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee.
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