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Boba Fett at the Chick-fil-A in Hickory, North Carolina

Published in Quantum Fairy Tales Fall/Winter 2014

 

My spent leg drags over the brown tile,
as graceful as a Bantha.
Sure, the Mandalorian body armor holds
my knee together, but I’m getting too old for this shit.
Tired of the nights camped out in my truck,
waiting for skips to duck out.
Tired of combing through databases till 3 a.m.
looking up license plates.
Tired of dressing up as a UPS dude
to gain access into their double-wides.
Eating nothing but Snickers for three days.

A large grilled chicken sandwich and waffle fries. Large, please.
A tall Coke. No ice. Hold the pickles. To go. Thanks. 

I hit the head and run into
a 2 x 6 Day-Glo painting with Jeremiah 29:11 in bold print:

For I know the plans I have for you,
plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future.

It’s laughable like weak coffee, the garish rabbits and rainbows.
but I can’t unsee it.
AA meetings taught me to accept the things I cannot change,
like my father’s murder or Han freakin’ Solo.
Hardship is the pathway to peace, they say.
Doling out violence and fear are my defaults
and my sponsor knows I still can’t surrender to anyone.
Perhaps I need new expectations.
Holding the door for an old man in a Braves hat,
I keep my eye out for movement among the parking lot pines
and mutter a tiny prayer while backing out by the Drive-Thru.
And an even bigger one when I take a bite
to drive east into the sun.
Telling myself this ketchup on my armor is real,
even if the past isn’t.

 

LBJ Takes Off

Forthcoming in Comstock Review Fall/Winter 2014

Goddammit, all I want is a cigarette.
Everyone else is smoking,
what a sweat lodge, all shades closed up tight.
Boil at the back of my neck’s gonna explode.
No one leaves Dallas till I say the word.
Our tents’ve been raided and our horses hobbled.

The morning team’s out of office for good,
but hell if I’m the chief in the Irish mafia’s mind.
So come on over, honey, get up from the bed,
I’m not about to stage a coup.
That’s right, all the ladies ‘round me,
Lady Bird, Judge Sarah, sweet, sweet Jackie.

My hands don’t shake, but hers do. Mercy.
They’re bare, white—still lots of blood
on her pink outfit,
but now don’t see anything
but the flashbulbs. Thank God
for the smoke, or the smell
she carries would kill us again.

So help me God!
I shout over the howling engines.
swearing on this stand-in Bible
Jackie snatched from the bedroom’s nightstand.

Hatches shut tight
the Colonel shoots us so hard
out of Love Field we’re like
a Comanche’s lance,
driving its steel point
into our surprised throat.

 

Meeting the Devil in Myrtle Beach outside Woody’s, Hwy 17
Published in Referential Magazine
Nominated for a 2012 Best of the Net Award

Buy the Track from CDBaby 

Aren’t I the one you’re looking for? he greeted me
at the restaurant door. I should have done laundry
or zoned out to VH1 instead of meeting friends for beers.
Who was this man with a bald head shaped like a squash,
a nimble slug in a Dick’s T-shirt and jean shorts.

Who could be this fugly with such confidence?
I didn’t mean to nod at, Do you like dancing?
He poked me with questions about lasagna. White or red?
He told me I preferred a bloody cardinal vintage.
Karaoke? He knew I sang every Wednesday night. Then
he asked me about any hoop piercings in my lady parts.
A smirk from his thick, swine lips. You look like you have
a thick clit. How could he know or not know?
He smelled of Brut and Bensons & Hedges, not brimstone,
but, oh, yes, it was time to leave and take a different way home.

Damn my good manners.
Damn the concrete attached to my black mules.
Damn my shitty dating pool at this tourist trap.
Damn my heart’s echoes.

I didn’t mean to vaporize seven minutes from my life.
I didn’t mean to never forget his face.

 

 

August 31, 1997    
in After the Steaming Stops                

Thanks to the front page,
I found out like most people did:
how she lay dying in a Paris tunnel,
how the impact raked her in like soft hay in a baler.
With Binky the Siamese cat plopped on my lap,
I stop spreading strawberry jam on rye toast,
his skin folds and dusty white fur escaping over the print.
I wish he could lick all of that black type and spit up
a vicious hairball I’d shovel inside wet beach sand.

 

Loss reminds you about change,
and what you are willing to throw away.

 

One week later it’s too early
for the calls of pelicans and egrets,
as I drive to a friend’s home on Folly Beach
to view the prince-demanded funeral. I could
have watched at home, but her day demanded witnesses.
My boyfriend didn’t know who she was
and couldn’t understand her power.

 

It’s the second time in 18 years
I’ve set my alarm to see such pageantry.
Eight horses carry the hearse
instead of the bridal carriage.
I cry more for her than I did
for any family death. I cry
for another death coming.

 

I see it’s time for me to move out of his place,
tell him what he’s afraid to say,
and take his fat cat and a few towels in the parting.


Enjoy a taste of Alice’s award-winning poetry!

Ice Cream Party 
Award Winner, Poetry Council of North Carolina

Pale plaid dresses brush
against pink walls, patent leather
Mary Janes kick white tiles.
Two balloons escape into rafters,
and I haven’t tasted even a teaspoon of ice cream.
I won’t, not on this day.
My third birthday, high voices
squeal above the store’s door chime.
Hands clap—my mother’s— 
demanding silence. Guests disappear
like popped bubbles. The girls go home
because I’m not behaving my mother says.
I never find out what I did wrong,
but I remember her saying:
I love you, but sometimes I don’t like you.

For a long time I feared the chance
of friends leaving early. 
Will anyone love me when they know me?
Will they show up at my parties?

Now after a decade of marriage and two children,
I fear my tongue-sealed invitations
go unanswered. While cradling white wine
I don’t want anyone to leave me.
I smile too wide, needy for crammed rooms.

 

The King of Cool Looks at Fifty
published in the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, April 2012

 

I idle my bike in this empty field,
dry as a Southern Baptist wedding.
I cough from the exhaust and
the scorched wildflowers on the edges
smell wasted, me on pot.
Don’t smoke, don’t drink anymore…
My body’s given up way before telling me the score.

As a kid, I don’t remember my mother much,
and I never met my father.
He saw me on TV as Josh Randall
on Wanted: Dead or Alive,
priming the “Mare’s Leg,”
and never bothered to call.
Uncle Claude threw me
against walls on Sunday nights
after spending the day drinking Bushmills.
Saturday mornings he taught
me how to shoot ‘em
rabbits and squirrels
in that shitty dump
I had to leave.

Mom showed up,
I couldn’t stand her.
Her dyed blonde hair, legs up in the air
men passed through her
like watches at a pawn shop.
At twelve, I was tumbleweed that blew into Chino,
the reform school where I
was never tall or strong enough,
yet hit hard without hurting my right hand.
(My first two wives would agree)

When I made it in The Magnificent Seven
I asked Big Money to give
soap and jeans to the Chino boys.
Yeah, man, I worked my own stunts,
almost filmed me and not Bud jumping my bike
over the barbed-wire fence.
My dune buggy ride
made Ed Sullivan piss his pants.

They needed to know I drove the Mustang,
I always get the last word,
don’t they know?
Maybe they could fail
but I couldn’t.
When I die, it’ll be
frontpage news.

 

Honorable Mention Winner in the 2012 Carolina Woman Writing Contest

 

Ode to Hamburger Helper

 

Come to me my enriched pasta and rice,
packaged cheese and red powdered sauce—
I pull out the milk and water for you
on school nights when the kids
are starving for Beef Pasta or Crunchy Taco.
My husband prays for your buck a box special at Food Lion,
a week of dinners—just kidding—but seriously,
I did you three times a week
when we were first married.

 

Well-meaning friends demand I open
a cookbook once in a while—
there’s way too much salt
and MSG in your gloved Helping Hand boxes,
evoking a certain late pop star.
They tell me to avoid your yellow starches,
cook real pasta and veggies—forego the quick prep.
Run past Aisle 4—“Prepared Foods”—run!
And what the hell are you doing in Food Lion anyway?

 

 They can keep their organic carrots and hand cut pasta;
I’ve got 27 Box Tops to collect for my son’s school.
I blame my mother—oh, I know, but it’s true!
She created all from scratch,
spent hours in the kitchen, and nary a Helper or a Kraft
noodle crossed my lips till I was 20.
Like skirts, pendulums swing
and I love your Italian, Chicken and Asian Helpers
over browned lean beef.

I promise not to burn you.

 


 

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4 Comments

  1. kenny December 26, 2010

    A lot of good stuff here. And like a rose, shall always come back.

    reply
    • Alice Osborn December 26, 2010

      Thank you, Kenny~come back and visit soon! Alice:)

      reply
  2. Pam Van Dyk February 21, 2013

    Alice, I just finished reading After The Steaming Stops. It is beautiful and haunting with an invisible power….like someone released the steam valve on a pressure cooker. p.s. I enjoyed the Writer’s Workshop last night.

    reply
    • Alice Osborn February 21, 2013

      Thank you so much, Pam! So glad we met last night at the Writers’ Workshop on Method Rd. I’ll be reading from “After the Steaming Stops” this Sunday 2/24 at McIntyre’s Books in Fearrington Village in Pittsboro from 2-3pm–please come!

      reply