Yellow Mama Archives II

Brenton Booth
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Zumpe, Lee Clark

Bare Knuckle

 

by Brenton Booth

 

He doesn't write anymore.

     Spends his time trying to

 

hustle money anywhere

     an ex-con can. I published

 

him, a couple of others

     did too—not enough. Which

 

didn't surprise me at

     all; it takes a lot to notice

 

greatness: and he had

     it. I spoke to him high

 

once on the phone for

     over 2 hours. He was

 

trying to feed his sick

     grandmother. He was

 

looking after her. Told

     me he had broken several

 

ribs a few weeks earlier

     bare-knuckle fighting and

 

was back on heroin to

     help with the pain. I

 

haven't heard from him

     for over a year now: hoping

 

it is life, not death, that

     has taken him.



Darker Than Night

 

by Brenton Booth

 

You automatically wake

at 3:10 A.M. on your one

day off work because you

always wake at 3:10 A.M

for work. A dozen hungry

blackbirds singing. Waiting

for the crazy old woman

next door to feed them

small pieces of stale white

bread and talk (the only

conversation she will have

all day). Too many bills.

Dentist charging more than

a holiday. No holidays. No

escape. Trapped inside the

3 A.M darkness. Exhausted

but no chance of sleep.

No sweet dreams for the

worker. Neither rich, nor

poor. Perpetually glued to

the endless treadmill in

between. Writing words at

3 A.M to keep the shotgun

cold and empty. Wondering

if the dawn will ever come.



The End

 

by Brenton Booth

 

When the hearse arrives will

you run, or will you smile.

When the hearse arrives will

it be tragedy, or will it be

victory.

When the hearse arrives will

there be mourners, or happy

faces.

When the hearse arrives will

Socrates be surprised.

When the hearse arrives will

the plants still be growing.

When the hearse arrives will

it smash through the day like

Moses' sea.

When the hearse arrives will

the hands still tremble from

all the years they've seen.

When the hearse arrives will

all the seconds have had

meaning.

When the hearse arrives will

there be something left to

take . . .




Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared, or is forthcoming in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press. 

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