George T. Mormann

The Beast

The Writer — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 12:15:34 +0000

May the eldest
dog repose in
the middle road.
Selfish-certain
that it must live
on to serve my
devices, I
chase after the
dying thing.

On white lines
it passed sides.
On black knees
I hold it.
back-forth-back-forth, crying
we belong
to the past
now.

May the eldest
dog repose in
the middle road.

This sufferable beast
with soft eyes that lull me
in motherly refrain.

Pleasured by all this
pain — I thought you would.

The corpse I am
shaking, stay alive for me!
The corpse I am
coddling, it will all be over soon.

May the eldest
dog reprose in
the middle road.

The Starving Midwestern Artist

The Writer — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 15:36:39 +0000

Shame I brought to
a family name
my factory name,
employee of such-‘n-such
division and department name,
unskilled laborer sheep
bearing the indefinite
lay-off name. The trained flock
disapproves, those who
share this same name.

Six generations of Midwestern
Dutch kind of name, bestowed
to babies whose bodies glisten with
elbow grease as doctors ease them
from the wombs of seamstresses and
office receptionists.
This good German name
“those Germans are quite
the workers, ya know” name,
as said by Norwegian Minnesotans,
but the babe, though born with
dirt already caked under his
nails, had the fingers of a
pianist and not a butcher.

Aye, there’s the rub!

The father who could not cry
collected the dieseline sweat
of his brow and with it refilled empty
bottles in auto shop toolboxes,
where days puttered and the
revolutions of ceiling fans moved
faster than cars came in the lot.

The mother cried to cab drivers,
confessing her child’s
delusions of grandeur,
an idiom she had heard on
Soap Opera monologues,
emphasizing “grandeur”
as did Sergio the Spaniard
heartbreaker she adored
so so much on those
rainy Tuesdays.

And well, Uncles just called him gay.

Such is the price
for passion in flyover
country, hoping to
grow gardens
in gravel lots,
nurturing
blossoms and
the fruits of
creative labor,
only for the batch
to be stomped on
by disgraced high school
quarterbacks that recall
their glory days on
Tuesday two-dollar-you-call-its
and Thirsty Thursdays, or the
unemployment line marches to
the liquor store, a succession
of heavy handed footsteps
by the boots of kin and
cigarette beggars,
all of whom
have inspired his words as
they have his escape, so that he
may make

a name for himself.

Happy Birthday to Me

The Writer — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 12:18:20 +0000

Wa-Lah!

Shrine of Her Dead Lover is now available through three mediums. Read it for me, as I will spend my birthday writing something else.

Links to the story are highlighted in beige.

For Kindle.

For NOOK.

Also available on a bevy of other formats on Smashwords.

For some poetry, check out Pastrami and Wasabi on Rye.

For Kindle.

For NOOK.

Filet Mignon for the Price of a McChicken

The Writer — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 17:15:29 +0000

A sedate suburban life is turned on its head following the discovery of a sultry and perverse secret kept from the husband by the wife.

Hint: it involves a cat, socks, and a dead accountant.

8 Pages, 4443 Words.

$0.99! The links for download are available below this cover image.

Check it out for Kindle!

Check it out on Smashwords!

Please contact me if you have any questions or suggestions.

georgetmormann@gmail.com

Pastrami and Wasabi on Rye (eBook)

The Writer — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 21:55:08 +0000

It goes well with a root beer float.

Pastrami and Wasabi on Rye for Kindle.

Pastrami and Wasabi on Rye for NOOK.

Haiku and Coffee

The Writer — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 14:23:46 +0000

Denny’s at midnight.
For reasons unknown, you will
likely end up here.

—–

Chinatown, show me
culture! Word is a lotus
turns tricks at Dim-Sum.

—–

Smoke and exhaled breath
are one in the same; a red
cherry melts the frost.

—–

Five pillars roasted.
Saffron and gun powder spice
endless summer nights.

no laughter

The Writer — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 11:40:52 +0000

Where did the
laughter at
unadulterated
missteps
and cartoon
banana peels
go in
this city with no
children?
When did
caramel apples
become
cigarettes in
this city with no
children?
Where are all
the astronauts
and ballerinas
we had once known in
a city of
children?
That moment
your innocence,
so precious,
immune, and
unknowingly fragile,
was ripped out
of you in
that city of
grown-ups.
Now I hear only the sighs
of lives that are ill in
the city with no
children.

no laughter

Brown Road

The Writer — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 23:56:33 +0000

I’m in the mood to drive,
but a destination I
can do without.
On a road with no
speed limit I will
press the throttle
to the floor and close
my eyes, or ease off
it, and fall asleep
behind the wheel, in
the backdrop of
a rural expanse.
Coast across the barren
cornfields and not care
they will soon sprout and
grow shopping plazas.
The future can’t touch me;
I’m not headed that way.
The past I already fixed
by breaking the rearview
mirror; I need no luck
on a road of emptiness.
On this drive I
procure only exhaust
and take from it
only the scenery.

The Muck of Human Existence

The Writer — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 21:43:02 +0000

The rain by chance alone
settled in the comatose
terrascape, false moon surface
that were the pockmarked
streets at midnight.
Black puddles flooded the
cavernous expanses, swayed by
fresh droplets that were
absorbed into the urban abyssal
pools like the faint yellow shine
of streetlights through the fog.
Flushing between the grooves
of asphalt treads oozed canals
of piss and cheap gin, cough syrup
and the bile of addicts. The thin
blood of agitators and victims
beaten by rain pedals into a single
red river flowing into yards of
melting dog feces and bug
pesticides – peppery and bubbling,
bursting it’s hologram residue onto
the pavement where it swirls in a
roll of motor oil and sweet sweet
antifreeze. All of which spill
into the water, their molecules
expand, and kill the element,
becoming nothing but a deluge
of poison unsuitable for life.

Going Down with the Ship

The Writer — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 11:20:45 +0000

Here’s to the bastardization of communication,

I say,

as I dice onions in the tilting galley

of the sinking cruise liner that is,

our culture.

https://twitter.com/#!/GTMormann