"Poontang!," someone yelped, but I thought, beautiful.
A dozen of us huddled in the dark
to jeer a woman luminescent as a ghost.
Our faces flickered in a shaft of light
the rickety projector branded on a wall.
We sat faithfully through each position
poised for the thrill of a final cum shot.
Each new angle drew a catcall from us
sparking hoots of adolescent laughter
that masked our nervousness. But no one left
or even budged from where we sat transfixed.
I mocked her with the rest, but secretly
feasted on her body, her flesh, her lips,
and each nipple, luscious as a cumquat.
-
Spring Feature 2014
-
Feature
- Kurt Brown A Photo Tribute
- Kurt Brown Excerpts from his "Notebook"
-
Poetry
- Laure-Anne Bosselaar
- Lee Briccetti
- Wyn Cooper
- Stephen Dunn
- Richard Garcia
- Janlori Goldman
- Andrey Gritsman
- Kamiko Hahn
- Steve Huff
- Meg Kearney
- Eugenia Leigh
- Thomas Lux
- Laura McCullough
- Christopher Merrill
- Kamilah Aisha Moon
- Martha Rhodes
- David Rothman
- Harold Schechter
- Charles Simic
- Tree Swenson
- Charles Harper Webb
- Marty Williams
-
Essay
- David RigsbeeOn Kurt Brown, An Appreciation
Feature > Poetry
Harold Schechter
Harold Schechter is a professor of American literature at Queens College, the City University of New York. Among his more than thirty published books are a series of historical true-crime narratives about America's most infamous serial killers, a quartet of mystery novels featuring Edgar Allan Poe, and an anthology of American true crime writing published by the Library of America. He is also the editor of the Kent State University Press True Crime History Series.
Early on in our acquaintance, my wife, Kimiko Hahn, and I were out for dinner with Kurt and Laure-Anne and I happened to mention that I had plans to attend a movie later that week. I don't remember what the movie was, but I'm assuming it involved coeds on spring break who get attacked by a giant mutant piranha—or something along those lines.
Kurt, who was always up for new experiences, expressed an interest in attending. It was pretty evident that he had been sadly deprived of such pleasure. Having not yet evolved to the happily post-literate phase of existence I myself currently enjoy, he had been misspending his time reading the likes of Melville and Whitman and was shockingly unfamilar with that genre of cinema. Hard as it was to believe, I don't think he'd ever seen a single Vin Diesel movie.
I already had a boys-only movie club consisting of me and my buddy Cristoph Keller. The two of us took a vote of the membership and decided to invite Kurt to join us on a probationary basis.
As it turned out, Kurt proved to be a tremendous asset in our organization. Kurt had this amazing sense of enthusiasm and capacity for delight in new experiences. Even today, I can't picture him any other way than with a big grin on his face. His presence totally enriched the experiences of watching movies about cyborg warriors from outer space and peace-loving, middle class family men who are forced, by tragic curcumstance, to become vigilante killers.
When Kurt and Laure-Anne moved to California, Christoph and I occasionally invited other acquaintances along to fill in the gap. But—as all his friends know—Kurt was, and remains, irreplaceable.
Stag Film
Poetry
Charles Simic
Fisherman
Poetry
Stephen Dunn
On Kurt Brown...
Poetry
Thomas Lux
At the Blue Gates