Kurt Eisenlohr

by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 6, 2013

Lou Welsh


When I was eight years old I mangled

the index finger of my right hand on a broken

bottle and my mother put a bandage on it.

Once a day I would remove the bandage

and spray RAID into the wound.

I did this for weeks,

until the flesh around my finger stank.

I don’t know why I did it,

or why I stopped,

but I do know the slogan on the can said


and that a suicidal poet

was its author.





I was raised on Wonder Bread and Kool-Aid

in one of the first American cities to have fluoridated water.

The water tower was lined with lead

and the cavities in my teeth were filled with mercury.

During the summer months the mosquitoes were murder.

Parents would douse their offspring with insect repellent

before allowing them outdoors.

My Uncle Jack owned a cherry farm,

and on Sundays my cousins and I would run wild

in the orchard behind his house,

pelting one another with cherries until our shirts were stained red,

the hissing arms of pesticide sprayers all around us,

our sun-red skin slick and shiny,

and later, over ice cream, young soldiers

keeping us safe from the commies in Vietnam,

blown to bits on Uncle Jack’s color TV

while we watched the Nightly News.





Previous post:

Next post: