Di Schmitt

Now I’m 64

by Di Schmitt

Thanks, Fab Four.

Scrimp and save?

For what?

Nobody stuck around

‘Cept that hot, Spanish screamer

For a bit.

Need me? Feed me?

Frying up pork chops

At 3 A.M.

Between needy bitches.

MIA Friday night

Through Sunday morning,

Then all day Sunday

For football

In his lucky shirt.

Tiniest diamond in a ring

Stuck on this tiny finger,

So I can’t hock it.

They mistook him for a pedophile

That day.

That greasy fuck

Impaled on a white picket fence.

No weeds in this garden.

Only a body

Buried so deep,

I bet they found it in China.

My Most Favorite Things

by Di Schmitt

Thunderstorms.

Peanut butter.

The way toddlers stare you down

On the bus,

Like you’re some kind of freak.

Anything chargrilled

(within reason).

How the Great White swallowed that bridegroom whole,

And the bride screamed, and screamed.

The buttercream icing on their cake.

Films where the dog doesn’t die.

Peanut butter.

Films where the psycho breaks loose

And grabs the wheel of the van,

Slaughtering the nurses inside.

The smell of noir city streets,

Black, and slick, after rain.

Rainbow-colored chalk on blackboard menus.

Rainbows.

Blood-spatter patterns that seem almost ingenious.

(Did I say peanut butter?)

Di Schmitt hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” Di sees herself as a female Bob Mitchum.