—Poetry by Brian Fugett, Dayton, OH
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
SATURDAY MORNING CARTOONS
The living room
is blaring
with the clamor
of Saturday morning
cartoons.
I’m hunched
on the couch
gorging myself
with Froot Loops
while my brother
is in the corner
working over
Grandma’s poodle
with his latest
Ninja Turtle
techniques.
“I can’t believe
John Denver is dead,”
Grandma sobs
as she performs
her slow-motion rendition
of the Mime-Christ,
head cocked sideways,
palms extended
to the sky
in mock crucifixion.
Grandpa sinks deeper
into his armchair
& knocks back
another shot
of vodka
as he strains
to stay focused
on the TV.
The living room
is blaring
with the clamor
of Saturday morning
cartoons.
I’m hunched
on the couch
gorging myself
with Froot Loops
while my brother
is in the corner
working over
Grandma’s poodle
with his latest
Ninja Turtle
techniques.
“I can’t believe
John Denver is dead,”
Grandma sobs
as she performs
her slow-motion rendition
of the Mime-Christ,
head cocked sideways,
palms extended
to the sky
in mock crucifixion.
Grandpa sinks deeper
into his armchair
& knocks back
another shot
of vodka
as he strains
to stay focused
on the TV.
TITANIUM HIP CONCERTO IN C MAJOR
Late Christmas Eve,
a warped Mozart album
warbles on the record player
as the party guests begin to leave.
I notice Grandpa slumped
under the mistletoe,
shitfaced & disheveled,
eyeing everyone
with cynical amusement.
He knocks back another shot
of vodka & egg-nog
calmly shucks off
his sweat-wilted t-shirt,
then snatches Grandma
by the hair.
“Hey everybody, listen to this,”
he says, pounding his knuckles
into Grandma’s newly constructed
titanium hip, “My Brenda sounds like
a kettle drum!”
Someone bumps the record player
& Mozart screeches to a halt.
An eerie stillness fills the room.
All eyes are fixed on Grandpa.
He continues pummeling
Grandma’s artificial hip;
the voracity of his punches
intensify with every blow.
The guests begin nudging each other
& whispering. One of them says, “Sounds
more like a hollow cantaloupe than a kettle drum.”
“I disagree,” someone else says, “I think she sounds
like a soggy head of cabbage.”
A thin sheen of sweat glistens
on Grandpa’s chest, shoulders, & arms
as he thumps at an ever maddening pace.
Everyone continues to watch & listen.
A steady anticipation seems to build in the air.
“I think I can name that tune in 5 bruises or less,” Mrs.
Weaver shouts from the back of the room
& there is a gentle round of applause
as Grandma slowly slumps to the floor.
Late Christmas Eve,
a warped Mozart album
warbles on the record player
as the party guests begin to leave.
I notice Grandpa slumped
under the mistletoe,
shitfaced & disheveled,
eyeing everyone
with cynical amusement.
He knocks back another shot
of vodka & egg-nog
calmly shucks off
his sweat-wilted t-shirt,
then snatches Grandma
by the hair.
“Hey everybody, listen to this,”
he says, pounding his knuckles
into Grandma’s newly constructed
titanium hip, “My Brenda sounds like
a kettle drum!”
Someone bumps the record player
& Mozart screeches to a halt.
An eerie stillness fills the room.
All eyes are fixed on Grandpa.
He continues pummeling
Grandma’s artificial hip;
the voracity of his punches
intensify with every blow.
The guests begin nudging each other
& whispering. One of them says, “Sounds
more like a hollow cantaloupe than a kettle drum.”
“I disagree,” someone else says, “I think she sounds
like a soggy head of cabbage.”
A thin sheen of sweat glistens
on Grandpa’s chest, shoulders, & arms
as he thumps at an ever maddening pace.
Everyone continues to watch & listen.
A steady anticipation seems to build in the air.
“I think I can name that tune in 5 bruises or less,” Mrs.
Weaver shouts from the back of the room
& there is a gentle round of applause
as Grandma slowly slumps to the floor.
THE BUTCHER ON THIRD & VINE
The butcher on Third & Vine
is a self-proclaimed
neo-nazi skinhead
who slaughters his cattle
with an old rusty blade
then collects their ears
in a mason jar
that is stashed
beneath his bed.
He stands 6’3”
thick neck
broad shoulders
& has 22 tattoos,
each depicting
dead farm animals
in various degrees of decay.
Old Mr. Cohen,
stoop-shouldered & skinny,
shuffles into the shop,
painstakingly propelled
by his hickory cane.
He greets the butcher
with a friendly tip of his hat.
“I am the Bovine Van Gogh,”
the butcher brags, smearing blood-
stained hands across his apron. “What
can I get for you today, Mr. Cohen?”
Mr. Cohen cracks a nervous
grin & gestures at the hard salami.
“I’ll take a pound of that,” he says.
The butcher wraps & weighs
the meat, pushes it gently
across the counter,
then wedges a toothpick
between his teeth.
“That will be two bucks
& a quarter,” he says, gazing lustfully
at the old man’s enormous set of ears.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Censorship reflects a society’s lack of confidence in itself.
—Potter Stewart
____________________
Welcome to the Kitchen, Brian, and don’t be a stranger!
•••Today (Sat. 4/9), 4pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance presents Zia Torabi and Bob Stanley at The Library of Musiclandria, 1219 S St., Sacramento, CA.
_____________________
—Medusa
•••Today (Sat. 4/9), 4pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance presents Zia Torabi and Bob Stanley at The Library of Musiclandria, 1219 S St., Sacramento, CA.
_____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
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work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
