Published Monthly

Brent lives, writes and teaches in Kingman, AZ with his wife Jen and two dogs. He has a Bachelors and Masters degree from Northern Arizona University, and is currently working on a Counseling degree.

View the rest of the poems from Brent Potter in the May 2004 edition:

Taco Bell
by Brent Potter

I walked to the Taco Bell with my brother, and we saw an old friend. I told my brother to ignore him because the guy was nothing but a fuck. I called my old friend a fuck as if fuck was a tangible object like lipstick or lemonade. As if one could roll it into a long shaft like Silly Putty, and then smoke it, so that when a cop asks, “what are you smoking?” you could say, “fuck.”

Fuck wasn’t it. The guy was something else, something that I couldn’t think of yet. It was like when my brother and I found two dead birds that killed themselves on our living room window. We knew that we could fix them because we made model airplanes before. We stapled Popsicle sticks to their wings that kept them spread out like Christ and brought them on top of our roof and watched them fall, spiraling down in our neighbors backyard then get carried off by a black dog.


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