Jay Passer


I had to turn the little yellow Honda CVCC 
off the Interstate, somewhere
in Missoula, Montana
because of a sudden blizzard
that threatened to whisk me
into the hinterlands
in the motel room
I cracked a tall boy
and just caught the start
on cable TV
of the Coen Brother’s
homage to human bellowing
plus a bank robbery, a kidnapping,
a chase scene revolving
around a package of diapers, 
a Minotaur on a Harley
and a lady cop
with freckles



What a horrifying monster, she said.
But he did appreciate fine art, I said.
He ate people’s livers, she said.
But not alcoholic livers, I said.
He’s a fucking serial killer, she said.
With a doctorate in psychiatry, I said.
And that other guy skinning fat girls, she said.
Not your next Christian Dior, I said.
He loved his dog more than people, she said.
Emerging from chrysalis is no picnic, I said.
I’m glad she shot his ass dead, she said.
So was the Senator’s daughter, I said.
Did he really have to chew up that cop’s face, she said.
While listening to Bach’s Goldberg Variations, I said.
Why are you defending that madman, she said.
That madman won an Oscar, I said.
But Jodie won it too, didn’t she, she said.
Good things come in pairs, I said.

No comments:

Post a Comment

The views and opinions expressed throughout belong to the individual artists and may or may not coincide with those of the other artists (or editors) represented within the magazine. Hobo Camp Review supports a free-for-all atmosphere of artistic expression, so enjoy the poetry, fiction, opinions, and artwork within, read with an open mind, and comment wisely. Thanks for stopping by the Camp!