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[Return to Guest Poets Page]Miles David Moore
Miles David Moore, twice a Jenny McKean Moore scholar in creative
writing at the George Washington University, Has performed at many
venues, including the Library of Congress and the 1993 Poetry Slam
in San Francisco. His poetry has been published in, among others,
New York Quarterly, Poet Lore, National Review, and The
Washington Post Magazine. He runs the monthly open reading at
the Iota Cafe in Arlington and is the administrator of the Word Works
Washington Prize. His recent book, The
Bears of Paris, includes an excellent series of poems about a
character called "Fat Slug", the poster boy for the low self-esteemed.
The Bears of Paris is available from The WordWorks, Box 42164, Washington,
DC 20015, $10 + $2 postage and handling, or you can order from Amazon.com
or any bookstore.contact Miles at: miles3855@aol.com FATSLUG MEETS A POET He materializes from the camouflage of President’s Park, and weaves around the Treasury Building’s wrought-iron fence, his sneakers kicking a soft-drink cup. A ponytail trickles from the back of his helmet and down his battle fatigues. His knapsack has a ponytail too – fluorescent orange cord, dangling to the sidewalk. FREAK ALERT! FREAK ALERT! Fatslug shifts into warp-speed to get past this idiot. But as he race-walks by, Fatslug sees an unsteady finger pointing at him, and hears a voice: "Before you go, I want you to know that the man behind you is the death-crow. And the man behind him is the life-flow. And the man behind him is the hedgerow. And the man behind him is the rainbow. Remember this. Go slow." Fatslug roach-scurries across the street to where the Washington and Willard hotels exchange stock-market tips. Pregnant rain clouds pool their gray bellies, and baby trees shudder. Street vendors with indecipherable accents hawk Redskin sweatshirts at passers-by who mutter secrets to their shopping bags. [From The Bears of Paris] FATSLUG INVENTS A LANGUAGE by Miles David Moore Dorfbag. Crelmchorm. Kurplipsia. Zort. Milgafnia. Gzurzgliag. Rgrgrgrgrg. This is the language that comes unbidden to Fatslug as he slogs the concrete furrows of city streets, an ox harnessed to an urban plow. It comes as a reaction to blankness, a substitute for screaming obscenities. He rides the subway, and thinks zmuglumpf. He listens to his boss, and thinks vlilvlilvlilv. He sits alone at home, and thinks oodgast kurpriftriaft. Fatslug dreams of plastering manifestos across the cities belligerent walls: OONGE! GURBLATZIA FILGULBREK – Celvnok xorfel hubran terpagmok plaz fleegblatz! Jilkania egmorpia orgorg – PLANO VLANO SNARF OGMUT SITKI – EKAB MA ZHITA! He laughs at the thought of passers-by trying to comprehend the declamatory anguish of a language incomprehensible even to its author. It isn’t fear of jail or printing costs that keep Fatslug from performing his revolutionary act. It is, rather, the danger of delivering your dreams into the hands of the public, so Fatslug, robbed of his private poetry, would slog through the concrete nimorks, farbzart hitched to an urban glink, bereft of all but the real words that break occasionally though his chatter, like sponge. Clam. Nerve. Nude. Shit. Art. Bread. God. [previously published in Sulphur River Literary Review] Fatslug is MAAAD by Miles David Moore those stupid people at the stupid supermarket have a stupid RAILING up so he can’t take the STUPID cart to the STUPID car and has to drive around to the entrance leaving SEVENTY-FIVE DOLLARS worth of FOOD out unattended where some stupid WINO can STEAL it or put his PAWS on it and now some STUPID woman is parked in the STUPID middle of the STUPID road shooting the STUPID breeze with her STUPID friend what else can Fatslug do but L-A-Y-O-N-T-H-E-H-O-R-N and the old man hobbling down the sidewalk jumps at the sound of the horn turns around looks at Fatslug as if he’d shot him and slowly, slowly shakes his head. Fatslug in the Fourth Grade by Miles David Moore "Hey FATSLUG," yells Fat Sandra, surrounded by her harpy cronies. "There’s a new girl here who wants to meetcha!" The harpies seize Fatslug and claw by hideous claw, drag him over to where the pale new girl fades into the wall. "Hello," he says, holding out his hand. The pale girl cringes as from a gargoyle. Fat Sandra’s laughter resounds through the centuries. [From The Bears of Paris] Copyright © 1999. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Duplication of this poetry and/or art without permission of the author/artist is forbidden under copyright law. Please ask permission if you wish to use for non-commercial purposes
Tuesday, July 11, 2000 |