| Saint Vitus Press & Poetry Review |
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Web Site crashed, burned, died, and is no longer with us.
It happened about a week or so ago, and needless to say, aside from
all of my personal writings, etc., the crash also took with it all the
poetry that I had saved up to update the web site as well.
So, I've attempted to rebuild this thing to the best of my ability. If
you sent me something via e-mail and don't see it posted here, go
ahead and re-send it to me again. I'll get it up as soon as possible.
I apologize for the inconvenience here, so, bear with me and
hopefully you'll dig the look of the new site. Thanks again.
-- Theron Moore, Co-Editor
| THE WITNESS By Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal I was 11 years old when I witnessed a murder. The killers broke my legs and left me for dead. They cracked my skull with a lead pipe. I stopped breathing. I was in a coma. I made it out. I’m in the witness protection program. I can’t tell you my name. I don’t want the killers to find me. If you keep giving me those pills, I might fall into a coma again. I’m not crazy. I’m just a girl. When do you think I could get out of here? The government’s building a bomb mansion for me out in the desert. SWEET SUICIDE By Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Death is not my wish. Still, I can’t resist the sweet suicide within your soft lips. I am sure your man would kill us if he found us together caught in the sex act. I hear an angel’s harp and see Death and his shadow looming every time we make love. I feel strange, as if I don’t have long to live. Conscience sticks to my gut like a bullet. I bleed out. The sweet taste of a dozen suicides spills from my mouth as your soft lips and mine pull away. A key opens the front door. A gunman enters |
| QUESTIONS & ANSWERS By Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal When she was asked how she felt, she responded, “How broken penis?” When asked about her response, she said, “That’s what the voices told me to answer.” When asked what else the voices say, she said, “They tell me to get in the cars of men.” She asked everyone on the ward, “Do you know Mary, who is the mother of Jesus?” When asked why did she ask that, she said, “I am the mother of God.” She said, “I have three children in Heaven. In eight years they will come back. Please help me take care of them.” The voices said, “God does not want me to take the medicine. God said I’m special.” She asked, “Why is everybody talking about me.” She asked, “When can I go home?” Rock Star Kid By Theron Moore Mother was a groupie Daddy was a rock star The heroin tracks tell me Hollywood ain’t too far The Day The Rats Came Out By Theron Moore Flicking their whiskers and sunning their backs against the mid afternoon sun thanking god winter is over and spring is here chattering back and forth with the other vermin huddled in open garages letting their pack run the streets playing ball, yelling, screaming it was a good day for the rats of Estes Park Ave especially the lawn maintenance guy across the street the midlife crisis guy next door and the neighborhood wife beater everyone talks about yeah, its that time of year again when the rats come out to play Fixing the machine that has since broken down By Theron Moore Upon further examination we got a a cracked engine block covered in grime and years worth of shit once a beast of a motor that never gave up had the endurance of a cosmic all crushing juggernaut whose sole purpose was to cruise the universe looking for planets to swallow and stars to smash now wondering if basic life got lost in a mish mash of gears begging for fluids such as oil to be pumped back into it not to mention flushing out the tubing getting that heart pumping again wondering why his hair turned grey when it was jet black down to his waist as a teenager and twenty something now cut off a crew cut and his belly sticking out when he used to wear muscle shirts and tight ass jeans fretting over making the “old man” sound when he gets up out of a chair now wondering what happened to that corvette of a man who turned into a Dodge Colt his pristine motor and all his piping now just an some old Monday afternoon quarterback lucky if he can spark any more |
| I WANT TO GO HOME My roommate thinks Her husband wants To get with me. I told her I Don’t want her old Husband. I punched Her in the eye For telling lies. I want to go Home. They want to Keep me locked up Here. I can’t breathe In here. I need Fresh air. I think The medicine Tastes like garbage. I don’t like it. Why don’t they let Me out so I Can wander out Where I belong? I want to see My father. He Does not visit As often. I Want to go home. Gunfight By Theron Moore When the last gunfighter fell and the dust had settled there was blood everywhere my hands my boots the streets of Laredo the stench of death hung heavy in the noonday sun while the far off cries of a momma a wife a sister who won’t see their loved ones again echos off the dead bodies and a glass of whiskey in a tavern where the undertaker sits and waits just like he usually does |
| Table of Contents: Home Page: Poetry by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal & Theron Moore Page 1: Poems by Craig Sernotti, John Macker & A Review of Todd Moore's newest book Page 2: Essay by Todd Moore, "Shadow of the Outlaw" & Poetry by Matt Finney and Tim Wells Page 3: Essay by Bruce Hodder, "Rejection" |
| be e-mailed to either Co-Editor Theron Moore Todd Moore |