Steve Westbrook


Ode to Pontius

 

Jackass sycophants are singing

sick offenses to the moon,

 

cataloguing bones they might not break

while imitating Steve-O’s cum face,

 

their voices howling like wolf fish,

their bodies doing things their parents

 

say that bodies shouldn’t, ascending

from a trampoline made out of cinder-

 

blocks into a sky crowded with boredom,

maybe a rain of stupid frogs or diarrhea

 

leaking from every cloud-shaped orifice

above the country’s endless parking lots

 

and disassembled shopping carts,

the metal skeletons of megastores,

 

and shards of skateboard decks, and risk,

and risk, and risk; this is the evolution

 

of celebrity due east of Hollywood

and south of Vegas, where the moon

 

responds by asking everyone to stop

and fucking whisper for a second,

 

then drops its robe like Party Boy

on Highway 66.


Outside Los Alamos

 

An engineer with cancer of the tongue,

with radiation radiating through

 

his tonsils, sings sweet arias

that sound like choruses of lace and silt-

 

filled rivers, cloud formations.


Bio

Steve Westbrook has published poems in Slab, Rattle, PANK, the Los Angeles Review, Literal Latte, ClementineBorderline, and elsewhere. He has also been in three fistfights during the course of his life, all before the age of 16. One was with Chris Pontius (of Jackass and Wildboyz fame). Pontius won. By a landslide.