New Shoes On A Dead Horse Read online

  He will be dressed in his only suit coat

  which he wears as naturally as a cardboard box.

  His jeans, his tie mechanically hung like tinsel.

  Not one for formal events, he tends to shift

  in his seat, impatient as a handsaw.

  When he cries—and he always cries

  the way only a father of three women

  does—his chest is a tired buoy. It sighs

  and rises and everything in his face sinks

  as if someone tossed a rock

  into the pond. The ripples expand forever.

  It is the most beautiful drowning.

  THE GENIUS GOES TO THE BARBER

  He was planning on growing his beard all summer.

  He was planning on taking a bus to the Redwoods

  and getting I Am So Small tattooed across his chest

  in Gothic font like a banner or a for sale sign,

  but his beard started catching things. At first,

  it was just your typical crumbs, dribbles of soup.

  One day, he found an entire angel

  food cake entangled in his whiskers while

  brushing his teeth. Then, darker things began finding

  their home there, closer and closer to his mouth.

  A nasty word someone called the garbage man.

  The look a mother gave her child for spilling his juice.

  A nightmare in which his entire life was a sitcom

  and he kept forgetting his lines and the laugh track

  kept rolling and rolling. It all clung to his chin

  like icicles. They became so heavy;

  he had no choice but to use them.

  He didn’t tip the server. He stopped cleaning

  his fish tank. It wasn’t until he found himself

  screaming at a senior citizen WHY DON’T YOU

  JUST HURRY UP AND DIE, YOU OLD WH—

  when the barber rushed him into the shop, forced him

  into the chair. We only carry what we think we need,

  he said as he turned on the razor.

  REASSURANCE TO SIERRA IN HIGH SCHOOL

  Don’t worry. The acne will go away, sort of.

  You will stop fighting with your sisters when they go

  to college. This will be because of two things: your inability

  to steal their clothing and the realization

  that they are older, cooler versions of you. Your bully

  will end up shaving her head and going to jail

  or she will become a lawyer and have a nice car

  and six babies. You will have no idea. You will forget

  what she looks like, remember her the way

  one remembers a splinter. You will stop

  loving sharp things. You will learn how to make

  your bed without being forced or threatened.

  You will break up with your high school

  sweetheart. I know, this is a surprise

  but trust me. Yes, he loves you,

  but it is a smothering love, the way

  a dog nurses an open wound, all bared teeth

  and tongues. When you leave him,

  it will not feel like crushing a light bulb

  in your hand—more like slowly, so slowly,

  removing the glass from your palm.

  For years after him, you will let your heart

  hang open like a soup kitchen. This is not

  a bad thing, more a lesson in proportions.

  After graduation, you will change a hundred

  times over, a revolving door, a waterfall.

  One day, you will learn how to give

  and receive love like an open window

  and it will feel like summer every day.

  One day, everything will make sense.

  BALANCE

  The state champion wrestler is in love.

  His sweetheart is a quiet girl who wears flannel.

  Because he is a wrestler, he understands balance,

  what it takes to overpower another.

  His sweetheart is a quiet girl. After high school,

  they will marry and live on top of a hill.

  He will not forget what it takes to overpower another;

  he will discover his need to drink.

  On the hill, he will build a house by hand

  and she will grow a garden in the front yard.

  He will begin collecting his anger in liquor bottles.

  She will bury her voice in the dirt.

  One day, she will discover she is growing a baby.

  He will be at the bar when her water breaks and

  she will wait in silence for two hours before he comes home

  because they don’t own a telephone.

  On seeing his daughter, he will not go back to the bar.

  The kitchen sink will become cluttered with baby bottles,

  cloth diapers hung out to dry on the telephone pole.

  One night, he will dream his daughter grown up,

  emptying bottles of anger in the kitchen sink.

  She is in love with a state champion wrestler.

  She is the lead in a high school play about her mother.

  She is an acrobat. She is learning to understand balance.

  THE FIELD

  Don’t worry. Baseball practice has been out

  for hours. In this town, children aren’t allowed

  out after dark and it is dusk. Walk to the center

  of the diamond. Peel off the husk of your dress.

  Sit down. Let first and third base guide your legs

  away from each other, as simply as opening a pair

  of scissors. The dugouts will drop their wooden jaws.

  The dirt will roll over and blush beneath you. Spread the lips

  of grass until you are buried, buried. You are the center

  of the earth. You are what spins the record. You are

  conducting this wild chain-link orchestra of heart. Touch

  yourself. Do not think of anyone else.

  THE GENIUS WRITES A LETTER

  It began as an apology. By now,

  Mistake’s heavy carcass was rotting.

  A cloud of flies began following him

  around like bad weather every day

  or an ugly balloon. As soon as he wrote

  the words I’m sorry, Mistake got up

  from the ground, brushed off its coat

  and excused itself with the politeness of a butler.

  He felt so much gratitude, the apology

  became a thank-you letter. An I-owe-you-

  so-much,-let-me-cook-for-you letter. An I-am-so-glad

  neither-of-us-is-dead letter. And because

  thankfulness is the kitchen floor of love,

  he had no choice but to write out exact directions

  to his heart I’m sorry I love you Don’t

  leave.

  EVOLUTION IN NINE PARTS

  I

  My earliest memories of my mother

  are sunburned. Pink cheeks,

  Braids. Dirt under fingernails.

  II

  Before me, she was already self-conscious

  about her stomach. Then I was made and I was too stubborn

  to turn upside down inside her and they had to

  cut her open and pull me out.

  III

  I learned how to put on lipstick

  by watching her get ready for work

  in the morning. I learned

  how to criticize myself

  by watching her cluck

  at the mirror, swatting her hair

  down like a bad dog.

  IV

  I am sorry for the white worm

  I left across your middle.

  V

  She believes my sisters and I chose her

  to be our mother. Handpicked her

  from a basket of others.

  This one. This one will teach us the most.

  VI
/>
  Learn to cherish this vessel,

  the tired music of the body.

  To grow. To grow.

  Let the skin be witness.

  VII

  I am standing in front of a mirror.

  I am insulting myself out of habit and suddenly

  my mother stops me, “Don’t say that, Sierra.

  If you think you are ugly, you are creating

  that ugliness inside you.”

  VIII

  I am thankful for the bed in your belly.

  I was a weary traveler.

  IX

  My mother has a birthmark

  the size of a grapefruit on her hip.

  It is red and exploding.

  I can only imagine

  when she undressed for my father

  the first time, it was like

  watching the sun come up.

  THE GENIUS FALLS ASLEEP IN CHURCH

  As the preacher spoke, he waited for the warmth of God to draw itself over him like a bath. He even sang, loudly, hoping to catch some of Him in his mouth. The stained glass reminded him of the neon cereal he ate as a child. The tops of the ladies’ hats made him feel as if he was sitting in the middle of an English garden. He closed his eyes and dreamed he was a butterfly. He was flying in the Garden of Eden. God was posing for the Sistine Chapel and let him land on His pointer finger and said, “You are the prettiest butterfly I’ve ever seen.” His voice was higher than he had expected and he noticed He had long blonde hair and breasts and suddenly She was guiding him away from the garden, away from the pews, into a field of bluish grass. She stopped in front of a low-hanging cloud. “Kneel,” She said, and he bent his four knees, because he was no longer a butterfly but a centaur and She placed the cloud on his head like a wreath of pillow stuffing. She kissed his forehead. A flower grew from the lipstick smudge. She held his cheeks as She said, “There are no gates to heaven. There are no doors to happiness. Go forth and love like a choir of mirrors. There is no collar on the beast of sadness, but it does not hunt for you. My darling, wake up. Wake up. It’s morning.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Mom & Dad, thank you for your emotional encouragement and spiritual guidance. Thank you for living boldly. You inspire me to do the same. I love you.

  Neil, thank you for making me write when I didn’t want to, edit when I didn’t want to, and talk about it when I didn’t want to. You are an amazing person. Without you, this book would not exist.

  Dylan, thank you for being nit-picky, critical, stubborn and hard to please. You are a great editor. Thank you for making me better.

  Michael, thank you for teaching me almost everything I know about poetry, which isn’t much.

  Derrick, thank you for this gift, this amazing opportunity.

  Daniel, Stevie, Gabrielle, & WB family, thanks for your support and inspiration.

  Brian, thank you for letting me borrow your computer, on which I wrote this entire book.

  Rya, that’s what I mint!

  The following poems have been previously published:

  “The Perm,” “Baptism,” and “Best Man” – Used Furniture Review

  “Reassurance to Sierra in High School,” “The Microphone,” and “Love, Forgive Me” – The Legendary

  “The Genius Considers the Pros and Cons of Pornography” and “The Genius Shares His Opinion of Astrology” – Muzzle Magazine

  “The Genius Visits the Psychic,” “The Genius Leads the Congregation in Prayer,” “The Genius Discusses Suicide,” “The Genius Goes to the Barber,” and “The Genius Falls Asleep in Church” – Frigg

  “The Genius Goes to the Art Museum,” “The Genius Has Sex,” “The Genius Has Sex,” and “Balance” – PANK Magazine

  “The Genius Performs Taxidermy” and “The Genius Writes a Letter” – kill author

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sierra DeMulder lives in Saint Paul, MN. Her poems have been featured in numerous literary journals, including PANK, kill author, and Muzzle Magazine. In addition to being a two-time National Poetry Slam champion, Sierra has read her work in hundreds of venues across the country. While not performing poetry, she enjoys painting, cooking and waxing on and on about feminism. New Shoes on a Dead Horse is her second book.

  NEW WRITE BLOODY BOOKS FOR 2012

  Strange Light

  The New York Times says, “There’s something that happens when you read Derrick Brown, a rekindling of faith in the weird, hilarious, shocking, beautiful power of words.” This is the final collection from Derrick Brown, one of America’s top-selling and touring poets. Everything hilarious and stirring is illuminated. The power of Strange Light is waiting.

  Who Farted Wrong? Illustrated Weight Loss For the Mind

  Syd Butler (of the sweet band, Les Savvy Fav) creates sketchy morsels to whet your appetite for wrong, and it will be delicious. There is no need to read between the lines of this new style of flash thinking speed illustration in this hilarious new book. Why? There are not that many lines.

  New Shoes on a Dead Horse

  The Romans believed that an artist’s inspiration came from a spirit, called a genius, that lived in the walls of the artist’s home. This character appears throughout Sierra DeMulder’s book, providing charming commentary and biting insight on the young author’s creative process and emotional path.

  Good Grief

  Elegantly-wrought misadventures as a freshly-graduated Michigan transplant, Stevie

  Edwards stumbles over foal legs through Chicago and kneels down to confront the

  wreckage of her skinned knees.

  After the Witch Hunt

  Megan Falley showcases her fresh, lucid poetry with a refreshing lack of jaded undertones. Armed with both humor and a brazen darkness, each poem in this book is another swing of the pick axe in this young woman’s tunnel, insistent upon light.

  I Love Science!

  Humorous and thought provoking, Shanney Jean Maney’s book effortlessly combines subjects that have previously been thought too diverse to have anything in common. Science, poetry and Jeff Goldblum form covalent bonds that put the poetic fire underneath our bunsen burners. A Lab Tech of words, Maney turns language into curious, knowledge-hungry poetry. Foreword by Lynda Barry.

  Time Bomb Snooze Alarm

  Bucky Sinister, a veteran poet of the working class, layers his gritty truths with street punk humor. A menagerie of strange people and stranger moments that linger in the dark hallway of Sinister’s life. Foreword by Randy Blythe of “Lamb of God”.

  News Clips and Ego Trips

  A collection of helpful articles from Next... magazine, which gave birth to the Southern California and national poetry scene in the mid-‘90s. It covers the growth of spoken word, page poetry and slam, with interviews and profiles of many poets and literary giants like Patricia Smith, Henry Rollins and Miranda July. Edited by G. Murray Thomas.

  Slow Dance With Sasquatch

  Jeremy Radin invites you into his private ballroom for a waltz through the forest at the center of life, where loneliness and longing seamlessly shift into imagination and humor.

  The Smell of Good Mud

  Queer parenting in conservative Oklahoma, Lauren Zuniga finds humor and beauty in this collection of new poems. This explores the grit and splendor of collective living, and other radical choices. It is a field guide to blisters and curtsies.

  OTHER WRITE BLOODY BOOKS

  (2003 - 2011)

  Great Balls of Flowers (2009)

  Steve Abee’s poetry is accessible, insightful, hilarious, compelling,

  upsetting, and inspiring. TNB Book of the Year.

  Everything Is Everything (2010)

  The latest collection from poet Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz,

  filled with crack squirrels, fat presidents, and el Chupacabra.

  Working Class Represent (2011)

  A young poet humorously balances an office job with the life

  of a touring performance poet in Cristin O’Keefe
Aptowicz’s third book of poetry

  Oh, Terrible Youth (2011)

  Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz’s plump collection commiserates and celebrates

  all the wonder, terror, banality and comedy that is the long journey to adulthood.

  Hot Teen Slut (2011)

  Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz’s second book recounts stories of

  a virgin poet who spent a year writing for the porn business.

  Dear Future Boyfriend (2011)

  Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz’s debut collection of poetry tackles

  love and heartbreak with no-nonsense honesty and wit.

  38 Bar Blues (2011)

  C. R. Avery’s second book, loaded with bar-stool musicality and brass-knuckle poetry.

  Catacomb Confetti (2010)

  Inspired by nameless Parisian skulls in the catacombs of France,

  Catacomb Confetti assures Joshua Boyd’s poetic immortality.

  Born in the Year of the Butterfly Knife (2004)

  The Derrick Brown poetry collection that birthed Write Bloody Publishing.

  Sincere, twisted, and violently romantic.

  I Love You Is Back (2006)

  A poetry collection by Derrick Brown.

  “One moment tender, funny, or romantic, the next, visceral, ironic,

  and revelatory—Here is the full chaos of life.” (Janet Fitch, White Oleander)

  Scandalabra (2009)

  Former paratrooper Derrick Brown releases a stunning collection of poems written

  at sea and in Nashville, TN. About.com’s book of the year for poetry.

  Workin’ Mime to Five (2011)

  Dick Richards is a fired cruise ship pantomimist. You too can learn

  his secret, creative pantomime moves. Humor by Derrick Brown.

  Don’t Smell the Floss (2009)

  Award-winning writer Matty Byloos’ first book of bizarre, absurd, and deliciously

  perverse short stories puts your drunk uncle to shame.

  Reasons to Leave the Slaughter (2011)

  Ben Clark’s book of poetry revels in youthful discovery from the heartland

  and the balance between beauty and brutality.

  Birthday Girl with Possum (2011)

  Brendan Constantine’s second book of poetry examines the invisible lines