5 poems by Erik Korhel

Erik Korhel is from Seattle, Washington.  He began pursuing his dream of writing poetry with his first release, a children’s book of poems titled “My Tooth Fell in My Soup”. This book is well received by the educational community, having achieved a Must Have Books and Resources listing with the “New York City Department of Education”. With positive responses to the first, in 2011 his second published anthology of children’s poems titled “The Kid with the Red Juice Mustache” was released. October 2013 saw his third poetry book for children, “They Say I Am Obnoxious”.

 

 

 

 

– Tattoo of Dots –

The ride has begun to fall back. Break from the
cellar. Bird shit on a rail teaches children
to keep their hands to themselves. Sell you to the
gypsies. Tears are the fuel that sets one on fire.
Pangs like clock tower bells. Something of a paint-
er. Punk rock to the classically trained. Pink
hair. Shock value. None. What are you doing there?
Securing a presence. Clouds sewn together.
Soccer ball free throws. Avoid guidelines. Hobbit
home. Death is an open invite. Bury me
next to you and I promise I will be good.

 

 

– Loot The Heart –

Melancholy is too far away. Call me.
Ed drew me near. The porch light is on. Leave it.
Search bar: Oblivion. On my own. Autumn
removes, then replaces. Ache. Is it a red
face? Just the mustache. Tell me what you were
up to then? Use baby teeth. Ethereal
voice. There is a disturbance. Witching hour. I
owe my parents. The definition of ‘strange’.
Returning isn’t the option, but the cure.
(Curse). Pay to the order of. Burn the house down.
Happy Garden. Grilled cheese. Roy Rogers. On me.

 

 

– Page Twenty-Four –

Each line she supported made her mouth go dry.
A hubris cleansing. Asian fare made her thighs
meaty. Hungry an hour later. Diagnosed:
mad shepherd. Repugnance. Dirt parades beneath
each finger nail. False pregnancy. Erudite
pretensions, amiable conclusions. Push
back, coward! Aioli pressed from the earlobe.
Supine position when it hurts. Forehead en-
larging, a Billy Crystal ball. Door to door
prisoner. We appreciate your submi-
ssion, dear sir, but can do nothing for you, man.

 

 

– Nominal Fee –

I’m reminded of the green house at this mo-
ment. Where I met my cronies. Stop! Rewind the
phonograph. Writing a letter: Dear Past, It
is over. Except when I need to steer clear.
Societal peace and quiet. Intelli-
gence staves off sex. Natural selection blew
it. Writing makes me deflective. Don’t need them.
More than ever. Loot information. Victim-
less. For now. Catatonic. Stimulation.
Key words: Nothing. Water the asphalt. More sheen.
“Theme”. Not poetry, only observation.

 

 

– Craters Are the Vice –

Richard Marx and Teen Beat magazine. White lay-
out. Church exit. Some time ago. Twenty-five
years and I’ve never fully healed. She was there
and now she is here. Literally. Confir-
mation. Worst case: Alibi. It’s not the fire
that kills you, but the blemished paper. Oozing.
From the pen or face. Don’t stare, read. Railroad ties.
Oversize Hawk. Krypton reunion. Assem-
ble the pieces. “Would you like to meet my kids?”
“No”. Be nice now so you don’t need to later.
I don’t care enough to send my very best.