Erik Austin Deerly | Burningword Literary Journal

poet unable or unwilling to compute

October 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry

var 1 divided by 3 = point 33333333333333333

while point 33333333333333333 times 3 = not quite 1 // assume Microsoft bugs

IF not exactly(1)

THEN i hate this shit

ELSE echo ‘ple se send th mis ing p ece’

poet in seemingly perpetual state of rejection

October 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry

the 2012 apocalypse

my need to diet

the mispronounced nuclear

flip-flops

moral high ground

live chat

eight-hour workday

newsertainment

ayn rand

have a nice day

refudiate

the comb-over

emoticons

retirement

perfection

“No.” as a complete sentence in answer to my question

Dear Harvey

July 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry

I went to your memorial last Thursday
but you were not there
in your place was an old photo
you on your horse
full head of poorly cut hair
accidentally hip.

The woman spoke about energy, afterlife
and rejoining your ancestors.
While we bowed our heads
you reached into your holster
drew your revolver
and took pot shots.

If you didn’t want your bronzed baby booties displayed in public
you should’ve mentioned it while you had the chance, cowboy.

Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number 1, 2008

My Last Visit

July 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry

Cold meat covered in thin white cotton.
One foot protrudes.
Mouth agape, drools silently.
Teeth removed, stored neatly on the roll-away table.

As if you might get warm,
or wake up and need to chew.
Sourness—a look or a feeling? I’m
not sure. Mislabeled television controls.
I’ll see what I can do to fix this
error.

Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number 1, 2008

Kent

July 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry

I love you, I told him
Meals on wheels didn’t come ’til three o’clock
He’s pissed
I love you too, he said, trying to swallow it back down

*

Rewind, thirty years:
Leisure suit and perm aside,
Dad’s never changed
Trouble with women, he says, they just want to be happy

He never remarried
Thanksgiving with my Mom—Christmas with Dad
I came home after college
He was an old man

He reads glossy magazines
Schools me on pop culture
On his 78th birthday he asked for Moby
Though lately he prefers punk

When I was young, I had this dream my dad was shot
in the chest with a cannonball
He came home in this dream; I could see right through
the big round hole
The wound was clean, as if he were made of cookie dough
I couldn’t bring myself to touch him

Gave my dad a hug the other day
We repaired his iTunes
Picked over cold lunchmeat
Snapped a few pictures, said goodbye

Three days later—snail-mail from Dad
Scrawled across the back of a carefully folded article
About Balinese Hip Hop:
I love you, too

Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number 1, 2008