POETRYOK CorralJohn Stupp
When
my father
was a boy
in the 1920’s
Wyatt Earp
was still alive
riding back lots
in Hollywood
a stuntman
with a gun
looking for trouble—
when cameras rolled
he was there
in case a fight
broke out
or when kids crowded
Tom Mix—
once a lawman
always a lawman
couldn’t help himself—
at the deli
on Fairfax
old timers said
he sat with his back
to the wall
just in case
or made people move—
he didn’t want to be caught
like Bill Hickok
holding a dead man’s
pastrami
John Stupp is the author of the 2015 collection Advice from the Bed of a Friend (by Main Street Rag). He has lived and worked in various states as a jazz musician, university instructor, taxi driver, radio news writer, waiter, auto factory laborer and paralegal.
More Poetry
spider up her thigh in the dimly lit room
held down, stared down
embers of the abyss snap around her
My father sexually abused me.
When I got married,
I hyphenated my name.
No one questioned it at the time.
But in the middle of my parents’ late divorce,
everyone wants to know about names.
Nietzsche warned us not to look
long into the abyss, or it will look long
into us.
It was finally
his home until
abruptly
his mind flashed
all the times he had entered a
boy
i was depressed,
and i wanted
to take a
walk;
you said you'd join me—
didn't mean i wanted
netflix and chill,
it happened before words came
to tell me how to feel about it
newly connected neurons torn apart
or perverted—
forever firing blanks into the microbiological air
As a child
The lessons taught
Can bring a pain never thought.
The lessons on trust
And heartache
Sear the soul.