Brian Fugett

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EASTER MORNING, 1989


The taste of sleep
lingers in my mouth
as I feed another
cup of black coffee
to an impending ulcer.

Uncle Ernie with his
bushy gray hair
& crumb speckled beard
sits next to me
leaning his elbows
on the table
gumming a spoonful
of oatmeal.

I light a Marlboro
fascinated by
the tattoo
that decorates
his forearm
with the image
of a dead angel
dangling between
the salivating jaws
of a Golden Retriever.

He pauses mid-chew
spoon still perched
to his lips
then startles me with
a sudden sideways glance.

He studies me for a moment
eyes wide, then says, "I
used to be the meanest
son-of-a-bitch south of Hanoi."

He holds his gaze,
I nod in agreement
muttering, "Yep, I bet
you were Uncle Ernie. I
bet you were."

And I imagine he was
as I watch his grip tighten
around the spoon, causing
the limp angel to convulse
between the Retriever's jaws.
.....

INTERVIEWING MR. WECK


The bedroom
is sibilant
with the whistle
& hiss
of congested
lungs.

An unshaded bulb
dangles from
the ceiling
& the shadows embrace
Mr. Weck's back
as he sits
on the edge
of the bed,
clutching his knees
to his chest.

He greets me
with a nod,
gestures for me
to sit down.

Discarded sock puppets
litter the floor
& the air is tinged
with the scent
of sweaty palms.

I place
my notepad
in my lap,
flip on the recorder,
& flash him
his cue.

"Puppets are
my life," he says,
eyeing my argyles
as he dry washes
his knobby wrists
with slow,
fragile
movements.
.....

SATURDAY MORNING CARTOONS


The living room
is blaring
with the clamor
of Saturday morning
cartoons.

I'm hunched
on the couch
gorging myself
with Froot Loops
while my brother
is in the corner
working over
grandma's poodle
with his latest
Ninja Turtle
techniques.

"I can't believe
John Denver is dead,"
Grandma sobs
as she performs
her slow-motion rendition
of the Mime-Christ,
head cocked sideways,
palms extended
to the sky
in mock crucifixion.

Grandpa sinks deeper
into his armchair
& knocks back
another shot
of vodka
as he strains
to stay focused
on the TV.
.....

THE BUTCHER ON THIRD & VINE


The butcher on Third & Vine
is a self-proclaimed
neo-nazi skinhead
who slaughters his cattle
with an old rusty blade
then collects their ears
in a mason jar
that is stashed
beneath his bed.
He stands 6'3"
thick neck
broad shoulders
& has 22 tattoos,
each depicting
dead farm animals
in various degrees of decay.

Old Mr. Cohen,
stoop shouldered & skinny,
shuffles into the shop,
painstakingly propelled
by his hickory cane.
He greets the butcher
with a friendly tip of his hat.

"I am the Bovine Van Gogh,"
the butcher brags, smearing blood
stained hands across his apron. "What
can I get for you today, Mr. Cohen?"

Mr. Cohen cracks a nervous
grin & gestures at the hard salami.
"I'll take a pound of that," he says.

The butcher wraps & weighs
the meat, pushes it gently
across the counter,
then wedges a toothpick
between his teeth.
"That will be a buck
& a quarter," he says, gazing lustfully
at the old man's enormous set of ears.
.....

SHIT ABOUT ME:

Brian Fugett is a member of the slacker, fast food generation that has been branded with an "X". He sits in his pad all day consuming more oxygen than he's worth. Eating & screwing are the only things he really knows how to do. To pass the time between meals & sexual conquests, he writes. Some day he hopes to form a support group for people who compulsively swallow gum. He crrently resides in San Jose, CA, where he is the editor of the online magazine "Zygote In My Coffee". His poetry & short stories have appeared in Nexus, WordWrights, BABEL Magazine & The Bukowski Hangover Project. He has poetry scheduled to appear in a forthcoming issue of "Main Street Rag" & a one-act play in the anthology "Jacob's Ladder 3".

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