Serving House: A Journal of Literary Arts
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SHJ Issue 2
Fall 2010

[Three Poems]

Frank Giampietro

Stink Bug

for Nolan Stolz and the fellows at VCCA, Jan. 2010
Gray oily shield. Thin legged 
army tank from the tiny 

stupid future. More 
welcome than the roach. 

If there is a wheel of life, surely 
I will come again 

as one. Why? 
For my sins of omission,

of course. Today I with my 
sleepy stinking holes and soft 

genital folds naked in the morning 
sun wrapped one

in some toilet paper and 
peed on it and didn’t flush it

until I came from the shower
clean, handsome, glowing.


Poem With Love, Hearts, Moon, Birds, and Soul

Love says Eat this boiled egg, 
I’ve salted it for you.
But moon is listening 
through the wrong end 
of the megaphone.
Birds sing go 
fuck yourself, 
go fuck yourself.
And soul says oh no 
we’ll never scrape these 
hearts off the windshield.

So love carves 
a block of ice 
into a bust 
of Abe Lincoln.
Moon doesn’t go 
for compliments.
Birds have to fuck 
on the hard ground.
And soul flies on a zip line 
over heart’s fence, home.

Love blows 
the bug spray out of her nose.
Moon bleeds and keeps 
on bleeding 
until soul take his foot off 
the dead bird,
pumping its ribcage lightly, 
testing its heart song.
Woo-hoo, woo-hoo.


Man with World’s Longest Eyebrow Hair Drives His Father
to the E.R.

Frank Blanchard of Dover, Delaware earned his place in the Guinness Book of World Records with a single eyebrow hair measuring 3.7 inches. “I don’t know why it grows like that, it just always has,” he told reporters.
I’m at the wheel of the old man’s car 
and he’s in the back seat, and there’s a state worker 
lady in a yellow vest stopping traffic 
about half a football field away and the old man 
has started moaning like I’ve never heard 
before and says his left arm hurts bad, says his 
armpits feel like they’re on fire. 
He’s got the hair too, the old man, 
but he’s always had the barber trim his 
and can’t understand why I would “cultivate” mine. 
He doesn’t go for the Greek philosopher look neither 
and loves to trot out that Marine bullshit 
in his Foghorn Leghorn voice, “Why would a man 
farm on his face what grows wild 
on his ass?” He’s just mad 
because mine is longer. He can’t 
understand why I won’t go 
around these cars, neither. Sometimes 
I pull on the hair which is strong 
as a bread tie. Sometimes in the morning mirror 
I say Hello, hair and wink one time. 
Now the old man is wheezing about blowing 
the h—h—horn. The problem is, other than pointing 
at the TV to tell me I ought to get a job 
on QVC, Dad’s got no hobbies. 
That’s what my wife says. 
But then she doesn’t like my hair 
either. And last night in bed 
she wouldn’t kiss me because of 
the pictures of me and my hair in Wednesday’s Dover Post
—it’s always something. Tomorrow I got an interview 
with Matt at University Auto Sales—
he saw the article and read that I was 
“currently seeking employment”—this will be the first 
interview where I haven’t had to use 
my Modelco skin colored wax to smooth 
the hair down. Or maybe I ought to 
smooth it down—I’ll ask Mom what she thinks. 
She has a couple of long nipple hairs, 
not world record long but long enough 
to stick out of the top of her blouse 
at the breakfast table this morning 
to make me spit up my oatmeal and really 
piss off Dad. Matter of fact, that’s when he got 
huffy which led to me and him sitting here 
in this crapping traffic. Oh, I’ve seen Mom’s hairs, 
alright. She said they started to grow like that 
when she was nursing me. 
I could shoot down the side of the road. I can see 
the old man’s shoulders heaving 
in the backseat through the rearview 
mirror, looks like he’s trying to sit up 
or something. And now that I’m looking 
at the hair in the rearview 
I see it’s smart, actually, I’ll leave it 
like this tomorrow, see what happens.


“...we have been born here to witness and celebrate. We wonder at our purpose for living. Our purpose
is to perceive the fantastic. Why have a universe if there is no audience?” — Ray Bradbury