by Otto Burnwell
Momma swallowed up her anger
squatting next to cars,
sucking off the strangers
she found in parking lots
at mini-marts, and liquor stores,
and rowdy biker bars.
When rage would overtake her,
when her devils drove her out
to consume the thing that vexed her,
she flew away to scourge the night,
prowling barefoot in her nightgown,
a rage in need of dousing.
“She’s going for a walk,” said daddy,
or “letting off some steam.”
The Kansas night might do her good
to take a cooling breath of air.
“Get to bed and leave her go,”
drinking deep until she’s sated.
What else was there to say?
She inhaled the Kansas night
through hard and fleshy spigots.
Working open rusty zippers
on the pants of nameless men,
through dirty briefs and pubic hair
to find the prick inside.
A piece of ass to men,
a piece of shit to women,
a piece of work from God’s own hand,
to the pastor at her graveside
that daddy brought along
to pray her off to heaven.
Otto Burnwell is a
legal assistant, living in a densely-populated, urban area, where people have
lost their fear of saying really strange things in public, especially in places
where copious amounts of alcohol, caffeine, or designer cupcakes are involved.
He writes to stay sane, uses a pseudonym to stay employed, and changes enough
detail in what he writes to stay welcome at the family’s holiday gatherings.
As an entirely other person, he placed stories in Typishly, Red Fez,
The Oddville Press, Spank the Carp, Dual Coast
Magazine, and the defunct Digital Americana (not his fault).