Mr. Boris
The
nickel sized spider lived between the double storm windows and outer window.
Fierce winters required three panes of glass. The spider was yellowish black
with reddish gray stripes on its barber pole like legs. It couldn’t get inside,
I pointed that out to Paola, it was in our second-floor bedroom. Petunia the
cat loved to peer out the window to watch the spider and the birds and
squirrels. I called the spider Boris. It spun a beautiful web, I tried to get
it out three times with a bent coat hanger. Boris hid and came back after each
attempt. It had a marvelous iridescent web that reflected the sunlight
perfectly. It was completely stocked with a plethora of food. Two green aphids,
a fat mosquito, a copper centipede, an ant, and some alien looking beetles. One
morning I took some wire and jammed it between the windows, breaking and
bloodying a fingernail and knuckle, but Boris was gone. Paola saw it and
screamed are you getting outsmarted by a spider. I took out the three panes of
window and screen, I had Paola hold an old shower curtain over the window. I
took a garden hose and blasted water up there. I told Paola it has to be washed
away, she watched as I started reassembling the window. It was far from easy
balancing the heavy glass in the wet metal window tracks. Here comes wet Boris,
mad as hell landing on the back of my hand running up my shirt. I slam my chest
into the wall, while juggling three panes of glass. Paola screams, I thought I
killed Boris. The windows slams down on the backs of my hands, like a
guillotine. One hand soon looks like raw hamburger someone beat with a meat
hammer and an artery is swollen like a blue worm. The other hand looks like
it’s been slammed in Cadillac door. I think both my hands have black eyes.
Paola got me some ice and said, “At least you killed that ugly ass spider.” I
didn’t tell her Boris had moved into my closet.
“Hey Fish, thanks for not ratting me
out.” I thought it was a dream or those funky tacos I had washed down with Mad
Dog the night before.
The voice was kind of squeaky like a
cartoon character, maybe Bugs Bunny.
“Call me Mr. Boris. I’ll only speak
to you when I feel like it.”
The spider took a couple of flexed
jumps on its web like a trampoline and then did some flips. “Don’t go insane on
me human. I can help you write, just take me outside to catch some juicy
insects.”
“Okay Mr. Boris, show me what you
have.”
“Red
necks in the chicken coop
making
cackle whoop whoop
A
closet full of homos wearing
shoes
and socks like Perry Como
His
mama was a cougar
he
liked to eat his boogers
Chocolate
man was a nigerette
he
rolled a marijuana cigarette
Driving
a Chevy drinking with a ghetto lean
Leroy
changed his name got cut in the spleen”
“That’s enough Mr. Boris, your rhymes are so bad
you’ll get my ass kicked for sure. I’ll burn bridges north and west, I’ll have
to carry a derringer in my vest.”
“Not too shabby, Fisherman.”
The
Sandman
He low crawled to the top of the sand dune and stared down
at the oasis. Five nomads were watering their livestock. Nappy kept his rifle
scope trained on each of them and shifted his hand grenades to a more
comfortable position. He signaled to Qadr and she disappeared down the trail to
where Nahla was guarding their animals. Most nomads were honest, but there were
rumors of bands of thieves roaming this area. He’d learned long ago the best
ways to stay alive. The five men left the oasis, headed east. Waiting until it
was safe, Nappy’s entourage approached.
Nappy relaxed during the hot afternoon. The palm trees yielded shimmering shadows over the refreshing cool oasis. Sand dunes and mirage visions fought wars across the vast oceans of desert as far as you could see. His only wife, Qadr, who’s name meant fate, he’d met while living among the Blue Men of the Tuareg Tribe. Her beauty was unsurpassed. Nappy loved her so much, it frightened him at times. She had only one servant, Nahla, which meant a drink of water. Often Nahla had found water for them and their camels, goats, and sheep, when they became thirsty on their journey.
Nappy relaxed during the hot afternoon. The palm trees yielded shimmering shadows over the refreshing cool oasis. Sand dunes and mirage visions fought wars across the vast oceans of desert as far as you could see. His only wife, Qadr, who’s name meant fate, he’d met while living among the Blue Men of the Tuareg Tribe. Her beauty was unsurpassed. Nappy loved her so much, it frightened him at times. She had only one servant, Nahla, which meant a drink of water. Often Nahla had found water for them and their camels, goats, and sheep, when they became thirsty on their journey.
Abdullah, Nappy’s Bedouin friend
could not believe he’d wanted only one wife, when he could’ve had many or a
harem of beauties. Nappy was excellent at raising livestock and racing camels.
He could’ve been wealthy in gold, instead he was a seeker of knowledge. They
watered their stock, then made camp a few miles away from the water. Where
there was water in the desert, there was danger. Something woke Nappy, it
wasn’t a sound exactly, it was more like a feeling of dread. Something was
amiss. One camel and Nahla had vanished, she was on guard duty. Qadr and Nahla
were always armed to the teeth. Nappy pursued the tracks leading toward the
oasis.
The five nomads were taking turns raping his camel. Nahla was hiding, invisible to all, but Nappy. For men to hurt animals was unthinkable, it was a crime against God. Nappy was enraged, he became a monster killing machine. He waded into them like the devil incarnate. Bones were broken, heads and limbs were separated from torsos, blood soaked deep black into the sand. The camel trampled the last man to death. Nahla had seen Nappy in battle and knew enough to keep out of his way. She kept her rifle trained on the ferocious melee, in case her assistance was required. She filled a bucket of water for Nappy to wash in.
Nappy helped Nahla drag the corpses away from the water. The desert was quiet as the red orange sun peered above the sand dunes. Spotted hyenas were ready to feast, vultures circled above.
The five nomads were taking turns raping his camel. Nahla was hiding, invisible to all, but Nappy. For men to hurt animals was unthinkable, it was a crime against God. Nappy was enraged, he became a monster killing machine. He waded into them like the devil incarnate. Bones were broken, heads and limbs were separated from torsos, blood soaked deep black into the sand. The camel trampled the last man to death. Nahla had seen Nappy in battle and knew enough to keep out of his way. She kept her rifle trained on the ferocious melee, in case her assistance was required. She filled a bucket of water for Nappy to wash in.
Nappy helped Nahla drag the corpses away from the water. The desert was quiet as the red orange sun peered above the sand dunes. Spotted hyenas were ready to feast, vultures circled above.
Writer, Painter, Thief, Killer
I
love mama poems, no dada
poem for mama in heaven
best poem for mama
mama poems birthday
my mama poems
mama poetry in blood
poems on mama in Hindi
dear mama poem
mama naked poem
poem for mama in heaven
best poem for mama
mama poems birthday
my mama poems
mama poetry in blood
poems on mama in Hindi
dear mama poem
mama naked poem
Chasing
broncos, ghosts, and ladies through the night
A guy
ticks off his mama, she beats him in the head with
a toaster
then puts his penis in, plugs it in and clicks
it down to
bagel setting.
The Biggest Joke is Death
exploring
nature, red wagons,
animal
love, family, China, the
Arabian
desert, quiet birds, burning
books,
condoms, Bibles, poet hats,
coffins,
cowboys, virgins, ghost
snakes,
dog tags, and cannibals.
there is
even some sex, but never
enough
just a toe dip into the river,
shackled
by my years, gravity sucking
my energy,
the sky and ceilings piss
on my
head, the walls yawn in boredom,
nobody
laughs at the ugly motherfucker.
Even Death Can Make a Mistake
Love is a
huge blood diamond
shoved up
the ass of a virgin Zulu
Love is an
alligator’s yellow tooth
worn by a
gypsy mojo priestess
Love is a
black baby dying of starvation
Love is a
palomino stallion falling
into the
Grand Canyon
Love is
the workers getting overtime
wages on
the Great Wall of China
There is
no such thing as love.
Bio: Catfish
McDaris’ most infamous chapbook is Prying with Jack Micheline and Charles
Bukowski. His best readings were in Paris at the Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore
and with Jimmy"the ghost of Hendrix"Spencer in NYC on 42nd St. He’s
done over 25 chaps in the last 25 years. He’s been in the New York Quarterly,
Slipstream, Pearl, Main St. Rag, Café Review, Chiron Review, Zen Tattoo,
Wormwood Review, Great Weather For Media, Silver Birch Press, and Graffiti and
been nominated for 15 Pushcarts, Best of Net in 2010, 2013, 2014, 2016, and
2017 he won the Uprising Award in 1999, and won the Flash Fiction Contest
judged by the U.S. Poet Laureate in 2009. He was in the Louisiana Review,
George Mason Univ. Press, and New Coin from Rhodes Univ. in South Africa. He’s
recently been translated into Spanish, French, Polish, Swedish, Arabic,
Bengali, Mandarin, Yoruba, Tagalog, and Esperanto. His 25 years of published
material is in the Special Archives Collection at Marquette Univ. in Milwaukee,
Wisconsin. Bukowski’s Indian pal Dave Reeve, editor of Zen Tattoo gave
Catfish McDaris his name when he spoke of wanting to quit the post office and
start a catfish farm. He spent a summer shark fishing in the Sea of Cortez,
built adobe houses, tamed wild horses around the Grand Canyon, worked in a zinc
smelter in the panhandle of Texas, and painted flag poles in the wind. He ended
at the post office in Milwaukee.
