Justin Hyde

on a roll

by Justin Hyde

the ghetto scarecrows

were huddled

around a rotten

picnic table.

they were openly

smoking blunts

because cops

don't much bother

in that area

till after

shots.

nobody was gonna snitch

my parolee who'd

sliced his gps bracelet,

but i asked anyway.

he's brushin' his teeth

be out in a hot

second,

grinned a young

hazy-eyed

cut of granite

who hadn't

come up against it

yet.

he's on a roll postman,

said an old barefoot

from his wheelchair.

they all nodded

quietly.

i swung out of the lot,

gave a hand nod

and jumped the yellow

at 34th.

man on a roll

does whatever it takes

for seven-dollar

rocks.

he keeps grinding

till someone catches him

palming a circular saw

from their garage,

a cop

happens to have

his head up

while he's swerving

in a stolen rig,

or he offers to suck

the wrong dick

in a park restroom.

this time though

the sunday paper

told me how

my kid

had climbed down a manhole

with his pipe

and rocks.

hunkered himself

in that sewer pocket

going on three weeks

before a heavy spring rain

sent a city worker down there

to clear a

blockage.

dancing her out

by Justin Hyde

the red-haired woman

who sat next to me

at Brothers

smelled like

shoe-wax and

b.o.

she told the bartender

how to make a

sand-viper

and handed one

to me.

said her three year old

son

was in custody of the

state

she'd come in on a greyhound

to find a job

and get him

back.

i fell into

the crack scene real

bad

put myself on the

streets in

chicago,

she said.

had two guys

dancing me out,

they caught up with it

did this,

she said

and raised her tank-top

showing a horribly burned

left breast.

what the hell is that

whore doing

on your couch?

my girlfriend dragged me

into the bathroom

seething.

listen

she's in a bad

way,

i'm going to let her

sleep on the couch for

tonight

and she'll be gone

in the morning.

the fuck she is

have you lost your

mind?

if that thing stays

we're done.

i hope i'm not

causing you any

problems.

just a true blossoming

of ignorance,

i said

as we boiled

coffee and

got on the internet

looking for

legal aid attorneys

shelters and

temp agencies.

The Sun Doesn't Even Blink

Justin Hyde

too many scientists trying to

empiricise the human race into

amoebas

too many seventy-nine year old grandmothers

raising grandchildren because their mothers and fathers

are tapping anhydrous tanks and

tweaking in the streets

too many idiots thinking

they've discovered surrealism

too many retarded girls in wheelchairs

who will never have weddings

too many

match-stick catholics

praying for our souls

too many atheists who

don’t understand deduction is

built on induction

too much hate born

out of fear stoked

by ignorance of the axe

buried in every human heart

not nearly enough sheep willing

to shit on the herd and

i've yet to see one poet:

this asshole included.

This Poor Bastard at the Flying "J"

Justin Hyde

hundred-twenty pound

chicken-hawk sitting

at the little 'u' shaped

counter up front

can't be more than

nineteen.

the waitress is

his girlfriend,

she's trying to

hide it with makeup, but

there's a bruise

firming below her

left eye.

just go home!

she yells at him

for all of us to hear,

which at three-twenty-seven

in the morning is me

back in a corner booth and

the two of them.

after a month

of coming here

i've gathered he

doesn't have a job,

his whole universe

consists of the

fear that some

diesel jockey's gonna

tap her

out in his cab and

turn her into a

highway gypsy.

that guy over there

he's smart

a writer

says you've got problems

and need help!

(jesus christ,

this is all i need)

the fuck you know man!

the fuck you know!

his wings are

flapping like he

means business,

but true to form,

man to man

his kind of coward

never slides ass

off the seat.

Justin Hyde lives in Iowa where he works as a correctional officer. He is also a poetry editor at Thieves Jargon.