Holdin’ Yr Mud
by Davey Barber
My head rests on my clenched fist,
Like an oversized bowling ball draped in a mop,
A loud Crayola turtleneck, connecting the two.
Balloons surround me,
Stuck to the walls,
To the ceiling,
Covering the floor.
Festive enough to make a clown shudder.
“Smile for the camera, son”
My father’s lens commanded.
What he was really saying is “Hold yr mud, son.”
We all knew he was leaving.
I muster up a little smile.
I’m not sure what “Holdin’ yr mud” is exactly.
Whatever the hell it is,
I’m still holdin’ it.
The Other Scott
It’s hard to tell what cajones it took
For him to stop traffic,
Step from out his luxury vehicle
To make the climb and subsequent leap
Off the bridge I’d considered jumping
Many times before.
Do I have the guts? I may never know.
I knew a man who leapt
From the same Vincent-Thomas Bridge
Back when you’d pay a toll.
He survived in the confines of a wheelchair,
Letting me know
‘Letting go was the hardest part.’
He told me there was a god, he was living proof.
It struck me that the suicide rarely considers
The possibility of failure;
It may be too morbid.
I don’t know if you were a diseased man plagued
By madness and despair
Or just someone willing to loosen their clenched fist enough
To outstretch their middle finger to a god
They hope they wouldn’t find at the bottom of the bay.
Either way, you have one last fan-man-child
Praising True Romance
And for the sake of posterity,
Pretending like Enemy of the State never
About The Author
Davey Barber pissed himself the first time a gun was pointed at him with intent. That’s when he realized he couldn’t cut it as a nihilist.
Hopefully, he’ll get a WORLD’S GREATEST DAD mug from his son someday soon; the one he bought himself is getting pretty beat up.
He speaks in third person, is really sexy and has little regard for the Oxford Comma.
He calls Long Beach Community College home for the time being, but won’t be too terribly sad when he moves on.