Back to Issue 2

A poem written while listening to Billy Joel by Brandon Kinkade

Bear open your naked soul, young one, and walk patiently one
  uncoordinated foot in front of the other
  in through the out door.

  Let the cold Northern breeze wrestle with
  the uncombed, shaggy back ends of your hair.

  Never be bribed into a staring contest with the past.
  For her soft brown eyes will drown you into a pool
  of guilt and submission.

  Don't dare glance back over your left shoulder,
  not even out of curiosity of what it could have been!
  Only dare to push yourself forward like an assembly line
  through the love streets and soft parades of the big city.

  Plaster a smile end to end across your youthful face and
  run blindfolded and cross-eyed doped up on caffeine and amphetamines
  through America's open court yards.

  Stand free kicking dust up from alligator boots with your thumb sticking up fashionably
  Out of a black-tanned leather jacket.

  You're a trained model of James Dean
  with oil drenched hair seeping over Buddy Holly glasses and
  a movie script with an acting class receipt crumbled like
  The Berlin Wall in the back pocket of your leg hugging jeans.

  Your California dreamin' to quote cheesy 80's flicks,
  light Johnny Depp's cigarettes, guzzle the cheapest Wal-Mart wine like all other
  West Hollywood trash, and make love on a freshly washed beach towel against
  the crashing symbols of the oceans' motherly arms.

  Maybe we can force open the chest of life and stage a fake retro revolution,
  Protest against corporate America, lay openly in Midwestern farms on sticky, hot Summer nights passing the hash pipe while counting the stars and contemplating on middle class government conspiracies.

  Tonight, the lights go out on Broadway.
  The snow pours heavily like a broken faucet around us as we
  Latch onto each other like two sea urchins grasping tightly to coral
  for dear life against the tide.

  Forever and a day, my sun will rise and set like a kitchen timer in your eyes.

What A Crazy Household! by Brandon Kinkade

My front yard picked itself up and moved to Iowa
  where he enrolled in science classes and got his diploma.
  Last week, he dispatched me a postcard,
  divulging his job as a assistant professor at Harvard.

  The toilet said she is proceeding on strike tomorrow,
  unless I persuade the sink to take her to the show.
  The sweeper got drunk again and ran over the electrical chord
  forcing the house to become so cold.

  Every Friday night, the toaster hosts the Amateur Wrestling match at 10 p.m. by the stool. He is undefeated as the tag team                                                                                                       champion with his partner the remote control. My alarm clock formed a hardcore metal band that wakes me up every morning.                                                                                                                By the sound of her shrieking voice, it seems my alarm clock doesn't know how to sing.

  My Nike shoes went hitchhiking with their twin cousins the leather boots.They called me collect yesterday at a truck stop somewhere outside of Topeka, Kansas.My tie and I got in a name calling fight which ended with him strangling me at work and my yellow car no longer desires                                                 to be called Toyota for she changed her name to Patrick.

  Mr. Bicycle is on disability after running over a tack and blowing out his front tire.He has been hung up in the garage since May and is contemplating to retire.        The 54 inch t.v. always has a good hand whenever we play poker. Yet, what people don't know is he has a secret dream to be a nude sculptor.

  The lampshade is the biggest Nascar fan. He has all of Tony Stewart's memorabilia and the dishwasher is the hardest person to understand from his thick accent in Virginia.The forks declared war against the spoons and they use the counter as a battle ground.They launched pea cannonballs and tarter sauce bombs.              Yet, the spoons still withstood.

  The coffee machine steams mad and loses his head whenever he fights with his wife the toaster.For three months now, he suspects her of cheating on him with the bachelor the can opener.Shovel quit her job complaining I bang her head to much against the pavement.Instead of finding another job, she now collects checks from the government.

  The couch is a hefty fellow who does nothing all day but watch reruns of classic shows.Every Monday night, the ceiling fan will join him to eat popcorn and watch Cheers.My picky twin socks say they don't want to wear me anymore due to my stinky feet. Not to mention I have no blanket because she jetted to Vegas to elope with her man the sheets.

A Sense of Cosmopolitan by Brandon Kinkade

Inside the deep Aryan worship temples of ancient times,
  hidden under untouched spider webs and grains of
  Draudian sands is the secret to true love.

  In Modernization, she floats pass me like a
  butterfly in a dream.

  Her droopy puppy dog eyes pierce through
  my heart like a psycho killer stabbing me
  with a butter knife.

  Like a fish desperately dangling from a pole, I am forever hooked.

  Since the first day of my birth or rebirth or
  whatever you may call it, I've never been in
  my right mind. I'm junked up, swaying and swooning,
  taught to wear my fragile heart on my sleeve.

  She a former tiny dancer turned soccer player
  met me halfway in the dark hallway and showed
  me the light her with golden hair. Lured me
  in with slabs of warm, steamy meat then
  sucker trapped me like a hunter catching
  a bear only to kick me 50 yards with her
  spike heals and leave my butchered heart
  bloody and raw on the side of the field.

  Are you the Buddha seeking the realm of your
  existence in this or that world or do you
  wear a plastic joker mask, a different color
  for the change of seasons, to cover up the
  stigmata scars in which Jesus left you. I
  long to peel your skin off and rattle
  through your bones to get a true sense
  of who you are.

Bio:   Brandon Kinkade graduated with a degree in English-Creative Writing and minor in History from Ball State University.   He has been published in The Ball State Journal and in The American League of Poetry.