Justin Hyde

Post image for Justin Hyde

by horrorsleazetrash on September 4, 2010

Justin Hyde lives in Iowa. More of his work can be found here

there is a woman on my mind

like a
platoon of paratroopers
blotting out
the horizon

like a child
raw at the throat
for his
mother’s tit

a madman laughing
while standing in line
for the guillotine

like a fool

yes a fool

staring at this phone.

these boots

have outlived
six pairs of
laces

a wife

and the
banal affections
of seventeen other
wax
suitors.

they’ve seen me though
a suicide attempt

three minor stays in jail

and stints as
a door to door
vacuum cleaner salesman
and hired man
on a hog farm.

they were there
the day my grandfather
died on a hospice bed
from cirrhosis
of the liver

and the evening
my ex said
she was pregnant
and i tried talking her
into an abortion.

before that
they spent ten years
under my father
as a bug man
for presto x.

this morning
after watching me
lace them up
for the seventh time

my three year old son
gets them
on his feet.

trudging
across the living room floor
of my apartment:

look daddy

look at me

i’m a big boy
just

like you.

day after my sister told me my son would grow to hate me

young kid
eyes like manson
‘love’ and ‘hate’
tattooed
on his left
and right fingers
is on break
at the bagel shop
while my
four year old son
and i
arm wrestle
couple tables over.

good show
good show,
he says
clapping
whistling
through his fingers
after
ivan beats me
in a close
match.

go see if
he wants
a match,
i tell ivan.

he hops
over there
beating him
in a
barn burner.

got a
beast on your
hands,
he calls over
pretending to
shake out a sore arm
as we share
a smile.

yea
he’s a tough
little hombre

but not
too tough
to whup,
i say
tickling his ribs
and tossing him
over my shoulder.

a very short story


that first night
you told me
i was someone
you could dance naked
in the rain with

we planned vacations
to jupiter florida
and vegas

you even bought a dress
when the palm reader
at the flea market
in kansas city
said you’d be married
with three kids
(two of your own)
which fit perfectly
with my
three year old son

but
we just fought a-lot
over stupid shit

like whether or not
malcolm x
was in the black panthers

and the time
you flipped out
leaving me
thirty miles from home
when i playfully
stole the olive
off the plastic sword
in your bloody mary

then a silent interlude

i thought i was
over you

until i showed up drunk
middle of the night
thanksgiving eve
knocking on your doors
and windows
until the des moines pd
showed up

hand delivering
your answer
with very little
fanfare.

drinking white wine with a professional ballerina at a town-house in the suburbs

she doesn’t seem to mind
my kia
with the
bashed in front door

and proclaims
to actually enjoy
my poetry.

we drink white wine:
she from a glass

i

out of the bottle

as we go
back and forth
in this little
coffee-table book of theoreticals
entitled “if”

– if you could only have sex one more time which past partner would it be with and why?
– if you had to name a favorite body part of the opposite sex not including the genitalia what would it be?
– if you were asked to name the freakiest thing you’ve ever done in bed what would it be?

she tells me
about an ex
who could only get off
fucking her
up the ass.

i tell her
the best sex
i’ve ever had
was with a young woman
dying of cancer.

we find out
we’ve both had
over a hundred
sexual partners.

the red-herring pretense
of meeting her box-turtle
leads us to her bedroom
where the walls
are painted blood-red.

she pulls up
the left leg
of her sweat-pants
to show me
her dancer’s calf.

like a little anvil,
she smiles
asking me
to feel it.

as i reach out into space

she

turns off the light.

the men of eagle iron works

smudged black
head to toe
smoking cigarettes while
leaning against pickups
in the back parking lot
during morning break

give me strange brow
as i cruise by
on the bicycle path
clad in spandex.

they probably
think i’m
independently wealthy

or have some other
white collar hustle

to be
dressed like a queer
riding my bicycle
at ten a.m.
on a tuesday.

but i’m
hung over
like a
dead moose

myself
having to
punch the clock
two hours from now
over at ryko
for a
mandatory ten.

handcrafted by lucifer in his downtime between warfare and genocide

the dancer
wants me
but she’s nothing
but a wet hole.

the lesbian carpenter
holds my heart
like a goldfish
in a child’s palm
but couldn’t
care less.

the ex wife
gives me a
tear stained letter
saying the failure of our marriage
is the greatest tragedy
of her life
as

this afternoon
my sister
sends a text
saying i
suck at life
and

just now
the tugboat
i let fly in
last month
after a sherpa pack
full of kamikazes
calls to say:

you’re on the clock

i’m
five days late.

Previous post:

Next post: