Ben Ohmart (email@example.com) is a NY-based
composer who has published/performed on stage/television and film. And
is a frequent contributor to RealPoetik.
The Casual Brothers
the law library, always laughing, lipping, biting knees up
feet against the stones for seduction. about a month now
then. they just faded. wasn't a single day, weren't there
1 day, thought i saw them, another, a little hazier..... etc.....
miss them like a statue of inconsequential, non-specific blurs
picked up by a guy who liked to do brothers, now dead, dying rich?
in a car off to a town they'd never known before? relative in trouble?
would anyone ever care that much for my step..?
How A Woman Becomes A Bitch
need and don't call back, fingers in things that run like pies
mind but no mind, treat all objects as trees, shade for your shoulders,
cus when you run into one, blame them for growing on you.
wear an earring for sport, approach bars carefully with a gun
and a nude finger. be paid more for the same amount, get screwed
from the age of consent, become a President so no one trusts you
kids, school, dog gets old, kill it for the vet bills
want it all, give it your all, does it all come back
they can't cope, move back to rooms now dens and memory folders
frame your life with the good parts on instant film
regret, move on, cope, steam open letters you read long ago
fold the clothes you'll die in, make arrangements for your eternity
choke out those last days with Arby's commercials, strife,
chortle at remembrances, jot down things you've never wanted to do
and feel accomplished
The Gun Under The Register
move. never look up. move. slow
the bread on the counter. the price
the jerky eyes, the nose that never held
arm bands around his head, ulcer man waiting
carving knife flicking low watts, sweaty hand reaching
survival of the quickest, bits of bottle in a stone head
blows. spits. move. try not to look up. move. hard
front tooth, weak, bloody, soft crying
the slope down. door jangle. gone, bread that would soon expire
Call For Philip Marlowe
the slashed tires below the school, thinking
he could hide it. caught him. what didn't they like?
he pretended to care? got the names right, gave out the right letters
inside the seats stank with piss, and the defroster could do nothing
with the cold night. too far to go. only to sleep. eat for some reason.
sleep. start with the raw material of a new day. a little something on the way...
defroster, about a couple miles before hell. the prayer of summer
mumbled through lesson plans
well adjusted to be cruel, think they'll waste it for wine,
saving up for a woman?, beer they bag. but he was cold
couldn't show the ribs for proof, so they passed
up the chance to be Christian
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