Poem for Todd Moore (In Memoriam) by Craig Sernotti

in the poems of todd moore you'll find

life
& death &
dust &
booze &
truth &
a sawed
off double
barrel
aimed at
your balls
& you
will gladly
choke
on the
blood
in his
words
& ask
for more
with a
shit
eating
grin
on your
face

- previously published in Blood at the Chelsea (Erbacce Press)

who was by Todd Moore

who was

at the door
i asked
my old
man sd
death
he had
the dt's
& tried
to take
my pecker
did you
let him
have it
i asked
my old man
smiled
into his
glass sd
no
but i got
his bone

Four by Todd Moore

waco grabbed

fuller's hat & threw
it to me & fuller
sd you'd better give
it back & waco went
up to the old man
like he was abt
to give the old
man a slap upside
the head fuller
hooked a knife in
to waco's right
leg & he went oh
mama while i
dropped the hat
when fuller picked
it up & put it
back on he sd never
fuck w/a man's hat
waco was still bent
over when fuller
winked at me & sd
he ain't gonna
die but he'll be
walking real funny

- originally appeared in Lummox Journal Vol. 6, No. 4, 2000

#

rocko & lonnie each had

a dead man propped in the
back of the pickup parked
behind smitty's salvage
waiting for someone to
come for the corpses &
while they were waiting
lonnie started moving his
dead man's mouth & say
ing stuff so you think
yr a smart guy he sez
sounding a little like
curly of the 3 stooges &
it made rocko laugh &
he started doing it too
& the mouth on his wasn't
even stiff but the whis
kers were matted & when
he opened it up some
scabs wd fall out & he
pretended they were
words & sez you wanna
make something of it
& curly really did look
like he was whooping
except his eyes wdn't
move

- originally appeared in Asylums & Labyrinths, 1997

#

the day after

they got sonny at
the corner of
3rd & colorado
jake & i went down
to welty's garage
to see the car
old man welty
rolled a wet
stogie around in
his mouth sd it's
the green ply
mouth out back
all i ask is you
don't fuck w/any
thing there was
nothing to fuck
w/except 3 bullet
holes thru the
windshield jake
opened the door
& brushed all the
glass off the
seat before
sitting down
then he lit a
cigaret took
a long drag &
sd i can taste
death in the
smoke

- originally appeared in Asylums & Labyrinths, 1997

#

collins sd mona

can make her pussy bark
like a dog i smiled &
sd bullshit so when she
came out of the hotel's
back door collins
waved her over is it
still 5 bucks to
show us yr pussy she
grinned & we went
around the side of
the shed where she
pulled her pants down
i was holding the money
& she sd that's the
bank make yr deposit
the crotch of her
panties was dark
w/shit tracks now
collins sd make it
bark like a dog so she
put her hand inside
the hair got hold of
her pussy & moved the
lips while she was
doing the barking see
i sd she gave me a
look jesus the meat
does the work
you have to pretend

- originally appeared in Asylums & Labyrinths, 1997

Prose Poem: Todd Moore

switchman

walking down the railroad tracks with a baseball bat and had a hunting knife stuck in his belt every once in awhile he'd stop at a freight car switched off on a side track and bang on the door with the ball bat when he saw me watching he said have you seen kansas city bob wears a stocking cap and has only one good eye the switchman said haven't seen him i replied i got his glass eye he said i wanna give it back then the switchman held out his hand he was holding a real eye and it was swimming in blood

fucking by Todd Moore

fucking

around w/a
45 auto
while larry
sez kid
kid but i’m
not listening
because
i like the
feel of the
hammer
spur digging
into my
thumb kid
i can letcha
have it
cheap i’m
aiming at
my reflec
tion in the
mirror first
world war
vintage &
it still works
fine a
thousand
bucks gets
you the his
tory of death
larry sez
palming his
cigaret my
smile lights
the gun
barrel i in
vented the
history of
death now
all i wanna
do is conjure
the action

burning the by Todd Moore

burning the

crow
folsom shot
w/the 45
auto the
recoil made
his right
hand dance
across a
dry light
ning sky
then he
splashed
the wings
w/lighter
fluid &
got a hot
fire going
before
sitting cross
legged in
the weeds
i love the
way the
fire pops
its guts
folsom sd
it’s the
last time
the crow
gets to
sing

parker shot by Todd Moore

parker shot

the dog
first not
because
the dog
was fast
w/a gun
but be
cause it
felt good
to see
what rico
wd do
rico fum
bled for
his auto
matic
while
parker
blew the
top of
rico's
head off
it looked
like fake
hair lif
ting off
his skull

the day i by Todd Moore

the day i

skipped school
& went to the
movies my
old man was
sitting down
front doing
quick whiskey
hits the movie
was yellow
sky & he'd
chug 2 or 3
at a time liked
to say movie
shootouts made
him thirsty dur
ing one of the
boring parts
he got up to
take a piss
& looked
straight at
me then
looked away
several days
later he sd i go
to the movies
to get lost
don't look for
me there

Two by Todd Moore

i watched largo

pour gasoline
into a whis
key bottle he
sd just the
smell of this
shit gets me
going he
kept the
stream thin
& steady the
sound of
gas hitting
the inside
of that bottle
almost had
the crack
of fire in
it he stopped
at three
quarters of
the way
full sd we’ll
cork it for
now my
girl gave me
this old
bloody rag
for the fuse
lets go
torch big
eddy’s car

#

if i tell a

story just the
right way it
feels so
good i can
almost taste
it & it’s
funny how
i can see
the words
coming
little freight
trains in
the eyes
old man
paused &
poured him
self a shot
of jim beam
sd i gotta
have whiskey
& stories &
blood in the
smoke

White Heat by Todd Moore

White Heat is a chapbook by Todd Moore that first appeared in Yellow Bat Review #5. It is reprinted here with Todd's kind permission.

PLAYING PIANO IN THE WHOREHOUSE OF POETRY

What can I say about poems like these? They’re not like anything Robert Pinsky ever wrote. And, there’s no trace of John Ashbery here. Or, Billy Collins, the Language Poets, or any of the other usual suspects. There is no poetry poetry in these poems. None of the stuff that is usually associated with poetry, such as poet name dropping, hints of art or history or philosophy or literature. Especially literature. There is no literature in any of these poems, if that is what you are looking for. You may as well read the racing form, the menu at Annie’s Soup Kitchen, or your horoscope. As for literature, I think that has been pretty much cooked out of the bird. Actually, the carcass has been dynamited, washed, scoured, and flushed clean of any impure elements, and that last I heard it may be living under an assumed name in Argentina or Brazil. There might be a few of the old bones left, but they seem to have been sucked clean, very clean.

However, if you are looking for poems with real stories and people in them, you have finally come to the right place. In these poems you’ll more likely find tire irons, psychopaths, Hank Williams, cue balls, fish hooks, outlaws, car trash, whiskey, and shotguns. Hardly the stuff of poetry, but then these days what is the stuff of poetry, anyway? A rhetorical question and not worth bothering with, unless you are seriously working on an MFA. In that case, you may be in need of a good blood transfusion and proper medication. Or, at least, a very stiff drink.

The poems I wrote and have been writing for the last thirty years are products of having read too many well-written murder novels, catching one too many Bogart-Cagney-Raft black and whites, and living in a whorehouse hotel from the age eleven until I was twenty three. That, all by itself, may have colored my already lurid imagination. And, no, I never played piano in a whorehouse, but there were plenty of other games always available.

Funny thing about games and stories. I’ve always been a sucker for a good story but literary games I have precious little time for. I’m all Borges’d and Beckett’d out. I’m tired of the sophisticated soft shoe across a stage that doesn’t exist. I want more that just the Cheshire cat’s smile. Give me one good solid slice of dialogue out of The Killers or a paragraph with the sparks coming off from The Big Sleep. I love words that have real blood in them.

Wasn’t it T.S. Eliot who once said, “Poetry is a mug’s game”? After all these years I can at last honestly say, the son of a bitch was wrong. Today, poetry is a whorehouse and my Steinway is right over there.

#

colman had

saved a piece
of the rope
they’d used
to hang tom
horn claimed
old tom had
made the
rope him
self alls
i got was
3 feet col
man sd
waving it
above his
head like
a lasso
yippy yi
yay
somebody
else got
the noose
it’s just
a circle
w/death
inside
hell i
was just
lucky to
get this

#

every time

i see white
heat i think
abt kenny
& drinking
bootleg whis
key on the
back of his
pickup he
liked to say
no prisoners
& take that
shit straight
down two
three chugs
at the most
& you were
chickenshit
if you coughed
like the time
it went up
my nose &
he clicked a
pair of 38
slugs around
in his hand
sd kid if it
don’t burn
it ain’t fun

#

hanks williams


singing lost high
way on the car
radio while
i’m driving thru
the valley of
fire to el paso
heat waves
dancing off
volcanic rocks
shiver like
frightened
clouds of
wounded smoke
& i’m thinking
abt how hank
died in that
old cadillac
i’d like to be
lieve it
happened
while he was
in the middle
of getting a
song & when
he opened his
mouth to
sing out a
line he
tasted the
electric sur
prise of
death
deep in
the heart of
america

#

joey waited

til martinez
turned side
ways to
laugh be
fore scoo
ping the
cue ball
off the
pool table
martinez
caught the
action out
of the cor
ner of his
eye but
cdn’t turn
around
fast enough
when the
ball hit him
at the hair
line he
bounced
off the
table be
hind him
& nobody
sd shit
to joey’s
revolver

#

i thought

larry was going
for a tire iron
when he yanked
the sawed off
out of a pile
of trash in his
trunk see how
it feels before
you give me
the money he
sd handing it
over i let the
grip drop into
my hand any
kinda hisory
i need to know
history larry
sd nobody’s
talking it
likes double
ought buck
& works
good in the
dark

#

the fish hook

sank just
far enough
into dooley’s
right palm
to lock it in
sweat beads
were sho
wing on
his fore
head when
he whipped
out his
switch
blade &
sd fuckit
i worked
the point
under his
skin while
he drank
old crow
from the
pint he
stole from
his old
man’s coat
when the
hook came
out he
used my
shirt to
wipe the
blood off
& gave me
the finger

#

ryker stood

on the santa fe
switch track
singing marty
robbins’ el
paso to a
dead coyote
the lines he
didn’t know
he made up
when he
stopped to
drink some
ten high a
crow dropped
from a tele
phone pole
it stuck its
beak inside
the coyote’s
skull to
scoop the
last of the
meat

#

i watched

while keener took
a beating from
his old man the
belt slapping hard
across his bare
arms when the old
man got done he
shot me a glare
the veins in his
face looked like
welts painted over
more welts sd you
want some too i
didn’t blink then
he went away
later we sat over
beers in the weeds
down by the tracks
i sd how come you
just stood there
hell i don’t know
it felt like you get
w/the skin burned
off

#

you call that

poetry
rainey sd
leaning to
ward me
on his
barstool
he smelled
sour of
beer puke
& whiskey
when i saw
his hand
going into
a fist i
clicked the
switchblade
open &
shoved it
close to
his belly
fuck you
& yr opin
ions i sd
you wdn’t
know the
difference
between
poetry &
dog shit
talk to me
when you
start to
write w/
yr blood

#

frank was showing

me how to hold a
knife so the blade
wd snake halfway
up my sleeve when
the landlady came
out of the hotel
she was talking to
one of the girls
when she saw frank
& flashed a smile
that made the bones
& yellow skin go
funny in her face
she used an index
finger to wipe a
trace of white
powder away from
her upper lip &
nose then she
licked it candy
she sd moving
close sometimes
i eat little
boys like you

nights by Todd Moore

nights

are when
the book
ideas haunt
me they
float like
spooks
all around
my bed
& when
i finally
drift into
a gray
sea of
sleep i
arm
wrestle
shadows
in chairs
made of
fear

Three by Todd Moore

the snap brim

stetson & the
dark gray
suit made my
old man
look like
philip marlowe
& the way
he stood
for that
kodak shot
it looks like
he’s leaning
a little to
the side
like he’s
drunk or
so filled w/
the raw
meat of
darkness he
can’t stand
straight
this is the
man i wanted
to talk to
i wanted to
ask abt
his dreams
& his guns

#

frankie put

the cigaret
out in
his hand
sd i
think yr
fucken w/
me nick
sd i’d
never do
that he
was
smiling
all around
his cigaret
when he
put the
25 auto
out on
the table
frankie sd
got any
plans on
how yr
gonna
take a
shit when
i stick
that pea
shooter up
yr ass

#

eddie sd

for chrissake
leo if yr
gonna
shoot mikey
do it
away
from my
car i hate
to see
bullet holes
in the
metal &
blood
on the
paint is
no good

Quotes: Todd Moore

dillinger sd

never trust
a woman
or an auto
matic makley
flicked his
cigaret stub
at a passing
cop who
turned a
round to
give him a
stare sd
waddya do
if you
wanna get
laid dillinger
grinned sd
all bets
are off
when it's
a sweet
piece of
ass

Three by Todd Moore

the back

seat of manny's
car where
sonny & i
are matching
quarters then
the car door
opens & torry
sez the fuck
are these
kids doing
here & manny
sez they
wanted to
see it from
the inside &
torry opens
the car door
yanks me
out by the
arm & sez no
goddam kids
in this car
you wanna
show it off
show it off
to get laid
torry shakes
me a couple
of times &
when i bang
into his shoul
der holster
he sez son
ofabitch no
body touches
me there

#

mitchell was

scrubbing his
hands when
tulsa sd
two worst
smells to
get off skin
are shit
& gasoline
there's a
third mitchell
sd looking
over his
shoulder
yeah what
is that
tulsa sd
blood
tulsa made
a face
sd i didn't
know it
had a smell
what's it
like mitchell
thought abt
it a couple of
of seconds
sd like
something
burnt

#

no one

knows
how dark
the wolf
is until
the night
begins to
move

Todd Moore & YBR

What follows are all the free-standing poems I published in Yellow Bat Review, which was around for six issues from 2002 to 2004. In the fifth issue I published his chapbook White Heat, a collection of 10 poems.

You can't have enough Todd Moore.

#


when you tell

a story
tanner sd
rubbing the
ball of
his right
thumb across
the moist
butt of his
cigaret
let it
come at its
own speed
every story
has a
secret
rhythm that
goes way
inside
& floats
in yr blood
also
don't try
to act it
out good
stories
don't need
to be per
formed
just
listed to

from YBR#2

#


frank's gramma

was so small
he used to
give her rides
in his radio
flyer which
made her
laugh & yell
giddyup horsie
frank wd get
red in the
face & say
i'm not yr
horse but she
wasn't listen
ing instead
she was talk
ing abt peaches
a little black
pony she rode as
a girl i never
knew what speed
was till i had
peaches riding
her was like
falling asleep
in the wind

from YBR#3

#

griff spread

the money out
across the
front seat
& smiled
i touched a
20 & sd
how hard
was it
griff pulled
a 38 special
out of his
jacket poc
ket & sd
the store
clerk pissed
his pants
you gonna
tell
no i sd
there was
a mole
growing
on the back
of his left
hand he
bit it off
ate it &
sd that's
good

from YBR#4

#

playing catch

in the gravel
& broken glass
behind benny's
red horse tap
& rick is yell
ing burn em in
when his old
man leans out
the back door
& sez jesus
christ lets
keep it down
i'm trying to
concentrate
on my drinking
game then he
shoots me a
look sez
hey sonny
next time
you see
yr old man
ask him
abt that
sore on the
head of
his dick

from YBR#4

#

eddie had a

cowboy hat in one
hand & a colt 32
in the other & was
pacing back & forth
behind the hotel
when he sd ok mona
now what the fuck're
we gonna do & all
she sd was gimme
yr lighter & she
emptied an arm
load of bloody
sheets & some
thing else that was
heavy on top of
a patch of scorched
paper & lit it &
stepped back as
tho that was all it
wd take to avoid
the smoke when
she saw me watch
ing she sd fuck
you kid then the
world smelled of
ashes & rags &
cigarets & paper
& garbage & blood

from YBR #6

Two by Todd Moore

tracks was

trying to
pry his left
shoe off
the blood
that pooled
under his
foot had
created
enough
suction to
make it
tough to
remove
the wet
sound
almost
like air
coming
from the
mouth
right
after a
blowjob

#

can't you

put the gun
away while
we eat
piquette sd
referring
to the 45
auto dill
inger had
sitting next
to his plate
i like it right
where it
is dillinger
sd it makes
me feel good
too many
guns in
america
piquette sd
slicing a
piece of red
meat off
his steak
come on
lou dillinger
sd spinning
the auto
matic til
the barrel
was poin
ting right
at piquette
guns are
what we
do in
america

Four by Todd Moore

blind whiskey

& the straight
razor blues
keno sd
stubbing his
cigaret out
in the palm
of his hand
yr gonna burn
yrself good
lemon drop
sd tossing
a long neck
into the
sink just to
hear it ex
plode then
keno kicked
a hole in
the wall
sd shd we
get drunk first
& torch
the house
or you just
fucken wanna
shoot out
the lights

#

gunshots

then lenny
came out
& got in
the car
you do
everyone
garner
asked
the fuck
do you
take me
for lenny
sd ten
seconds
after gar
ner drove
off the
front of
the house
blew in
to the
yard

#

sonny threw

a right that
knocked out
screwball’s
glass eye
& he wd’ve
followed up
w/a left
to the chest
but screw
ball was
down on
one knee &
cdn’t get
up then i
pretended
to drop
my lucky
quarter &
scooped
the eye right
out of the
weeds
while screw
ball was
yelling
mama

#

tore a

page out
of the
book of
revela
tions
wrote
fuck you
across it
& handed
it back
coco sd
jesus christ
jake ain’t
you got
any brains
jake smiled
pulled a
25 auto
out of
his coat
pointed at
the barrel
sd i
keepem
in here