Justin Hyde was born and continues to live in Iowa. He grew up in a trailer park. There was adequate food and shelter, but he was not exposed to literature, and erudition in general was not valued by his parents. Justin spent a-lot of time alone as a youth. He managed to graduate from the University of Iowa with a degree in psychology. He has since embarked on a series of careers, both white and blue collar. His heart has never been into any of them, and he often feels detached from his surroundings. He is currently a correctional officer. His first book of poetry is forthcoming from the Guild of Outsider Writers.
JUSTIN'S INFLUENCES:
Justin’s main influences are everyday
people. He has an analytical mind and has made a
minor study of the human race. He likes to speak with
them and delve into their personal experiences. Some
say its his way of escaping himself.
in the hamper peed in and smeared with shit. mom said he'd got sick with the flu again while at uncle jim's on saturday night. jim isn't really my uncle, he's dad's childhood friend. dad partied at the bars with him a-lot up in des moines on the weekends. by the time I was sixteen i'd seen the bottom of enough whiskey bottles to know why dad had really shit his pants but it took me twenty-six years losing a woman that loved me by cheating on her before i really understood why my mom always cried like that.
you make double-time lightning with the women heh?
the driver was a saw-tooth hindu smelled like a clay pot still spinning on the wheel.
i get them cornered pretty easy but the oxbows of my jabberwocky mind make them turn tail like a cattle prod, i said still a little silly from vodka on the flight in.
nah a suit like that and anglican pop-star looks you just sit at the bar they'll come to you -
a fine blond maybe eyes of azure heh-heh, he laughed slapping the dash with his palm.
loosening my tie i got the sense he was drunk or crazy i wasn't sure, but pussy was the last thing on my mind.
all i wanted was a long line of seven and sevens from the hotel bar, get this two-day reserve bank training out of the way fly back to iowa and turn my celica over with the garage door closed -
which is how i'd decided to do it on the plane over.
the editor was kind enough to respond to my email
sorry he said
but we are not offering free contributor copies at this time
thanks again for your poem
and keep submitting.
so i can pay 10$
to see my blind chicken scratches immortalized
which i'm not going to do
that'd be like snowballing my own jizz with a lazy eyed bar slut
which is what 9 out of 10
of you pathetic excuses for poets
bored halfwits with more manufactured angst than talent
and all the resonance
of a backwards talking prostitute
two days off a dp ass fucking and crack binge
would do in a second.
but not me
fuck no
i haven't been that desperate
in days.
the adults were beaten,
shattered, seasick
and stretched thin.
it was apparent,
but i didn't know why.
i couldn't see
that it comes on slow,
like a dormant cancer.
little slivers of shit and bile
shanked in our sides
year after year
until you wake up every morning
knowing full well
that even if the gods slide you some mercy on this day
they've got switchblades in their boots
your name on them,
yours and yours alone.
an african american man
with a leather chicago bears derby
and three gaudy rings on his left hand
he's telling me louisiana's where its at
how he's getting together financing
for a used bulldozer and a front end loader
big money to be made on clean up
government contracts up the ying yang
he's going down there to make his fortune
and if i want in
all i have to say is jump
your loss he says
as he finishes his laundry and
drives off in a beaten chevy cavalier
leaving me wondering
if the fresher hell
is being saddled with the desire for money
or flattened as i am
by the numbness
of wanting nothing.
when we shake hands
mine will make a loud clicking sound
i'll tell you i broke it in a bar fight
and it healed badly
which is a lie
what happened is
i went into the woods behind brookside park
with a bottle of whiskey
it was the summer of two-thousand and four
and i was living in my parent's basement
why i went into the woods that day
i don't know
but there i was
sitting on a log getting good and numb
then i punched that tree three times hard
pretending it was my own face.
