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.


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.