Penmanship

Fall Poetry Contest - Top Ten Finalist
Christopher Grosso

He was an admirer
of Kerouac’s liver.
That of Faulkner’s, too.
He dug the penitentiary mind
of Burroughs, all walled-up
with excuses and denials.
Wanting the fists of Bukowski,
the gonzo of Thompson,
the hunts of Hemingway,
he once attempted to
shave a cactus at a party.
The prickly spines
resemble cheek stubble,
he mused, so logic seemed
to be smiling on his quest
like sun smiles on a
Sunday afternoon party.
It was a Sunday afternoon
as a matter of undisputed fact.
It was sunny. The orange juice
was infused with Russian water.
The air held the sharp end
of the weekend. His pen
was down. His razor was up.
The cactus won handily,
his bloody digits did attest.
A bearded dragon, he called it.
Get my sword, he yelled,
I will slay the mighty beast.
In the hard Monday morning dawn,
after the mind-wet guests had gone
home to wring themselves dry,
the cactus turned out to be
just a rose. Just a mighty red ask
for love, forgiveness, memorial.