Joseph Veronneau

has been writing for the small press since 1998. He runs Scintillating Publications, which publishes chapbooks. His own poems have appeared in Typewriter Voodoo, Remark, Poet Lore, Unlikely Stories, Underground Voices, Antipatico, Chiron Review, Zygote In My Coffee, and many others.

"Rodney D (R.I.P.)"

Rodney Dangerfield died.
No more who stepped on a duck?
No more bug-eyed confessions.
Rodney's dead.
How could he?
He was one of the lone links to a world
that used to be funny.
No more.
Taking the long siesta.
Caddyshack reruns bound to hit TBS.
My friend's dad loved Rodney.
He could do his eyes and everything.
He had a similar swagger like Rodney.
He gave a shit about people.
He wanted to make them laugh too.
No more jokes about two guys rotating car tires
from my vehicle to theirs.
For the last 20 years of his life
he looked completely the same.
Tried to make a final run in television.
And like awesome sex
It was good while it lasted.
Come to think of it,
I miss my friend and his dad as well.

"My Brother"

made me listen to Lynryd Skynyrd
in his car on the way home from school.
He was older and could afford to badger my own tastes with
the Skynyrd.
Cigarette smoke and rebel flag in place,
my brother was a redneck
and proud of it.
He had pictures on his wall of nude women
so the guesswork was removed when I was 7 yrs old.
He let me feel up one of his girlfriends when I was 10
He drove a beat up Monte Carlo, had a mullet
and whipped my ass if I gave him any lip.
I liked the 80's but knew they would end eventually.
I don't think my brother did.
His favorite movie was Ferris Bueller's Day Off,
he liked the idea of a slacker kid
so much that he often modeled it himself.

Somewhere along the way he became a successful businessman

I'm not sure how this happened.

"A Friend of Mine"

gets too attached to the women he meets.
He thinks that every nipple, every breast is a
grenade waiting to explode in his mouth.
He cries when it doesn't work out.
I tell him he is expecting way too much.
He doesn't seem to think so.
He threw all of his clothes away that one girl
bought for him,
I said what are you doing, at least you got SOMETHING
out of all of this.
He didn't care.
With all of his might, he heaved a chest full of
Levi's and Polo shirts into the community dumpster.
I think he wanted to show his physical strength
was better than his emotional.
We sat in my car for 5 minutes or so,
he realized it was stupid,
I climbed in there with him to dig out the
stinking chest full of clothes,
the fucker was heavy,
tossed it into my trunk.
He still cried a good majority of the way back to my place.
So at that point, I did the only thing that seemed reasonable,
I threw in Guns and Roses,
cranked "patience" real loud,
and went to get some drive thru food.

"1998"

Somewhere between shitty jobs
and hanging out with the
down-and-out crowd
I found my heart
suffocated with adoration.

I smelled the fumes rolling off
the dank city gutters
and it was good.

I read graffiti
on the sides of buildings
that were more important
than modern literature to me
at that time.

I dyed my hair an off-color
loaded up on frisky situations,
and kissed the sky one final
goodbye.

"15 Year Old"

She steers herself closer
to the mirror,
a lingerie commercial blasting
in the background.

Tenderly prancing around
on tiptoes
examining her ankles,
clutching them each with
index finger and thumb,
wiggling into a new pair
of nylons.

Styles flash and blast thru
like an exotic schizophrenia
that no one minds,
as the hordes flock
from department store to
parking lot
looking for
the perfect fit.

The obsessively thin
runway models glide
across the screen that evening,
and she is so captivated by them
that she forgets dinner
and fades off into sleep

dreaming someone else's dream.
© 2004 Joseph Veronneau

"Orphanage"

She stands alone
waiting,
a pack of gummy bears
clenched at her side.

Confusion wears
on her face,
as she wobbles
in place
not understanding
why the dog across the street
is barking.

Her memory will serve her well,
needles her a bit
as an adult,
reminiscing about the times
that didn't happen.

We all sooner
or later
become orphans.

"City"

They’re all headed somewhere
to carry on life
as they know it.

Everyone wants moments to be remembered,
to make it last,
penetrate the day with joy.

The street curves,
hides people coming into sight
awaiting to surprise each other
face to face.
Initial greetings, passing greetings,
sometimes none.
People embrace,
others walk by
alone
and wonder what time is like
in groups, going from place to place
with each other.

Shop windows throw light onto
the darkened street,
faces reflecting opinions
as issues are discussed.

Menus are read,
choices are carefully made,
people toast one another.

Problems are resolved
on porch steps with lit cigarettes,
music plays on one side
of the street,
silence across from it.

Some like the clutter of bodies,
others avoid it like the plague,
but I’ll be here
at my desk-
trying to make sense of it all.

"Begging"

A man leaves his house;
expecting to be pleasantly surprised
upon his return by his son.

It was his own non-arrival
which put his son to loathe
to the scalpers of love
so many years ago.

The man thinks he is only
a dinner and a movie away
from resolution; consistently scheming
ways to get his son alone with him.

I can’t help but to think
of myself;
ungraciously being signed away
after being named,
with an occasional vagrant-like
contact with you after being spliced
into a human being.

Love is not something to be
pawned away, only to repurchase
a faded concern many years later.

Possession is only nine-tenths of the law;
the other part is your humanity,
which isn’t something one can hope
to acquire overnight.