The Wannabe Automatic Writer
when he was younger
he jammed out on the guitar, bore a fro &
then graduated from brown-
following this, him & his hippie gal got married,
popped out a few rug-rats &
sooner than later he was at grad school,
then the ph.d & then
writing papers on meticulously fine-tuned
areas of literary theory
at the corner of where philosophy met with it in
a new postmodern paradise
free of the restrictions that modernism posed &
free of the comfort that it brought to those seeking
well-thought-out stories,
bringing with it the death of the meta-narrative
as well as a thousand other aesthetic flip-flops,
reversals & complete toss outs-
he sat in his little office at his little state university
teaching english courses &
weaving philosophy &
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poem by Andrew Delapruch
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The Good Daughter
having made her way out of the nest
having made something of herself
she rubs elbows with some of the city's finest lawyers
balancing her own practice with a sad attempt at having a social life-
she calls home to her mother,
whom she visits every weekend upstate,
doing her grocery shopping &
doing whatever she can for her,
the whole while listening to a constant critique of
where she should be at the age that she is-
her mother insists that her daughter will not stay young forever,
saying she has no fashion sense,
always points out that she should try to go to the gym more often &
never ceasing to make time to moan about wishing that she had grandchildren,
asking why a woman who is as successful as her daughter
cannot find a man-
the daughter doesn't respond with anger & instead
stays up at night when mother has fallen asleep
working on cases &
watching her remaining youth drift away,
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poem by Andrew Delapruch
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The Taming
when younger & full of life,
idealistic with fist in the air,
hell bent on changing the world
with a communicative heart
whose capacity to give &
care for those around her/him
seemed without need to ever
replenish,
the thought that an institution
whose front seemed to be legit,
whose will to instill knowledge in
the population of those willing
seemed pure & true,
never seemed to register.
so onto college went the aspiring
world-changer,
doing all they could to study hard
to be involved in the community
to picket when needed, to protest
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poem by Andrew Delapruch
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Bottled Up Horny Christian
3
times
in
4
years &
1 of those times brought on the little boy whom she spends most of her time taking care of these days
(that is, after all, the reason her man married her-for her child rearing capability)
and she thinks this second sexless marriage
brings with it the security that the first marriage did not
(first guy & her went at it like bunnies until he started finding other bunnies as well) -
the making of constant whoopee that came with the first guy
is secretly missed,
even if she wasn't the only one that had been tickling his pickle-
still, it is hard to ignore the long stretches of time that her "faithful" husband is gone
with his phone turned off,
or just left on the kitchen table, as if he had been out of the house in an awful rush &
when the baby is asleep &
she's masturbating alone
(well, she still has "jesus, " right? -that strapping young fictional character) ,
she wonders just what she did
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poem by Andrew Delapruch
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The Personal Trainer
husband
didn't pay attention when she started to change her look,
after all, she'd been saying how she wanted to for a while &
it seemed to make sense,
what with her going back to the gym full time,
after a period of time away
when they first had been married-
husband just went about his days
working more hours than he knew what to do with,
business was good &
with all the business around him seeming to fail,
he'd been putting away for the life he imagined in the future,
with or without
her-
but her time spent at the gym seemed to increase &
thought her body began to get trimmer, sexier, tighter, stronger &
she seemed to walk around the house with a new zest for life
(when he was there to see her) ,
he still didn't notice that
the personal trainer had moved in-
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poem by Andrew Delapruch
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A Gray Area
a gray area exists when the light dulls &
when it begins to tint this way
we run frantic, like the unluckiest chicken on the
farm,
who’s up next for a beheading-
like roaches scampering from a dry place to a damp one &
though the light is craved by many
the reality is that so many more live in the darkness
wishing, wanting & waiting
for a chance to walk into the gray
with that almost seemingly impossible notion that
the light on the other side
may be open to one more
occupant.
crossing through the gray area requires a better hand
than one is born with,
if one wasn’t born with the silver spoon-
it requires those things found necessary to survive
under the man’s pressing thumb
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poem by Andrew Delapruch
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Bad Writing
the sentence & the paragraph had agreed upon meeting at dawn
out in the middle of the page
as the reflection off the fine silver pen being lifted by the human hand in the sky
shone off the bright white recycled paper
there stood one strong paragraph,
which
was armed with clever words, quirky verbs & quiet frankly,
a whole slew of other sentences
who may or may not be brought into the fray
with this
vigilante,
who stood a good distance away from the paragraph
with its shadow blotting out part of the page-
the sentence was tight
knit
&
written in a language that the paragraph had never heard of
before-
the paragraph tilted it’s font a bit, to stave off the human shifting the paper,
causing a bit of a breeze across the soft plane,
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poem by Andrew Delapruch
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“Mathew” 6: 9-13
“our father in heaven”
(ode to the man who has children,
sitting around in an imaginary
place envied by other members
of the brainwashed)
“hallowed be your name”
(the sheep that baaaaa in unison
believe that there is a sound made
by all the simultaneous crying in
desperation which has then been
construed as a “name” then given
to the imaginary listener in said
imaginary place)
“your kingdom come”
(evidently, this wondrous trailer
park in the sky is something that is
supposed to be open to anyone sad
enough to submit their will to the pool
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poem by Andrew Delapruch
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