…Took another Outlaw angel home
dedicated to the memory and the poetry of todd moore
Poems by Todd Moore
& Friends
RUSTY TRUCK PRESS
http://rustytruck.wordpress.com
© Original Authors
Cover Art by Debby Dunnegan Other art by F.N. Wright
ISSN 2154-2252
FOREWARD
By RD ARMSTRONG
Todd Moore is gone. It’s been a rough two weeks for me. It’s hard when you lose
someone you have been a fan of…harder still when you’ve also known them well
enough to call them friend and mentor.
I first met Todd ten years ago. I had interviewed him for my little mag, the Lummox
Journal, in ’97, but it took me another three years to get out to visit him. I wrote about
that trip in my second long poem, On/Off the Beaten Path. I stayed with Todd and his
wife Barbara for a few days. They were very gracious. Best of all, Todd and I hit it off
really well. Almost as if we were old friends, just getting together for a little visit. And we
had some of the deepest conversations…Todd had the ability to get really serious no
matter where we were, be it his patio or at the local McDonalds. He could always do
that. The last time I spent some time with him, in May of ’09, we spent many hours
talking about the craft of poetry and its’ presentation to the world. I’ve always had
doubts about what my place in that world is and he was always good at helping me see,
without being preachy about it like a lot of poets can be. I never felt like Todd was
talking down to me or being anything less than straight-up honest. That’s rare. Much of
the Small Press is riddled with the “standard line of BS” when it comes to the pecking
order.
But not so with Todd. He was a good man and a decent writer. His Dillinger epic is an
amazing sequence of very spare poems, some of which are downright spiritual in
nature. The Corpse is Dreaming is the last section of the series and I had the pleasure
of publishing it in 1999. It details the last moments of Dillinger’s life as he lays in the
alley behind the Biograph, bleeding to death. It is amazing!
But Todd was not limited to one long-ass poem. He also wrote a lot of short poems, all
in that spare, just a word per line down the outer margin of the page – style. And, on top
of all that, Todd also wrote essays…a lot of them. He wrote eleven or so for my mag
during the course of its’ eleven year run and I was only one mag out of many that he
wrote for. Perhaps someday Todd’s essays will be published in their own volume and
receive the recognition that they deserve. Perhaps that will also be the day that Todd
finally receives the recognition that HE deserves, too.
Todd Moore told me once that when a poet starts worrying about his legacy, he might
as well hang it up because his days are numbered. And yet, if there is anyone who is
more deserving of a legacy, I can’t think of them at the moment. Pretty much all the big
guns of the late 20th century left a legacy in their wake and so too does Todd. His shoes
will be retired…nobody will be able to fill them.
sonny pulled
a handful
of change
out of his
& dropped
it on the
bar sd
what will
a buck
twenty
nine get
me the
bartender
pulled a
cut down
pool cue
out from
under the
bar sd get
you dead
from Poems for $1.29
--todd moore
Catching The Westbound For Todd Moore
Look how it's draggin' I hear my mother's words
It's a long drag and a double-header Climbing the grade bowing south to Santa Fe
Blending past the purple prairie sage
Sun lush in skyward's crimson rim
Far behind The Sangre de Christo Sparks link and bellow from its stacks
It's whistle low in half open moan. We can beat it to the next crossing, John
This V8 can outrun anything on wheels. --Charles Plymell
instructions
for playing
russian rou
lette first
put the
bullet in
an empty
chamber
spin the
cylinder
3 times
quickly
cock the
hammer
back lick
it off for
luck & the
black taste
of death
then point
the pistol
at yr head
take a
very deep
breath ex
hale slowly
& let yr
finger fall
in love w/
the trigger
the way
that maya
kovsky’s
did the
shock of
the click
cd kill
you
--todd moore
lola poured
half a bottle
of tequila
over her
pubic hair
& cunt
then
worked
her legs
open &
shut to
get the
full effect
before
giving
ringo
that hey
baby look
sd you
think you
cd put
yr tongue
down there
to save
those extra
drops
--todd moore
what're
you looking
at my old man
sd using a
straight razor
to shave
himself
w/ what's
the trick of
doing that
w/out getting
cut i
asked he
angled the
blade down
& i heard
steel scraping
skin in the
lather
& then
riding clean
no trick
my old man
sd wiping
the blade off
on an old
rag slapped
along the
sink's
banged edge
blood is
the ante
sometimes
you lose
--todd moore
when the
wolf
discovered
its legs
had been
shot off
it lay
on its
side in
the long
night of
snow
& began
to tell
stories from
way
back in
the eyes
--todd moore
LETTER TO A FRIEND IN ALBUQUERQUE
Todd; I was listening to your poem
About Tornado Jones on that CD
Mark sent me and when you talked
About the music calling to him
Especially when the moon was rising
And the wind was in the trees
I knew exactly what you meant
I too have felt it, tasted it, even smelled it
Even though the moon I see rising
And the sound of the wind in the trees
That I hear is only in my imagination
Because when I look out my window
What I see through the bars…
There’s no moon
No trees
And no wind
Only the dusty brown sky
Or if it’s late
The shapeless steel blue of
An urban California night
Silence punctured by
The slamming of doors
The siren’s wail
And the laughter of someone else’s woman.
--RD Armstrong
THE FAT MAN
we sailed into the port of Nagasaki
fourteen years after a bomb code-
named Fat Man was dropped on them
searing the minds of the survivors forever
& not exactly making us popular
as if visiting their fair city so soon after
the big bang that dropped rudely upon them
from the skies that day
was like rubbing salt into wounds
the city probably licks to this day
& when drunken sailors & marines
fueled by the rudeness of citizens of a country
known for their politeness found their way
to a memorial that had been erected at ground zero
where Fat Man had brought death & devastation
to them, eclipsed only by the bigger bomb, Little Boy,
dropped on Hiroshima only three days earlier
& at this memorial there was a mock-up of the city
as it had existed before Fat Man dropped in to say hello & there was this button you
could push that would bring a beam of light down from above the mock-up & strike
exactly at where the Fat Man had hit & a bright ring of light would appear at what had
been ground zero & it would expand in concentric rings diminishing in brightness as it
expanded in size to demonstrate how far the immediate damage extended, unable to
truly show the thousands who died that day not to mention the ones who would die as
the years passed & these drunks would depress that button & each time they did they
would chant, laughing boisterously" You'll wonder where the yellow went when you
brush your teeth with pepsodent"
the slogan of a popular brand of toothpaste in those days wondering why they were so
hated & couldn't get laid.
--F.N. Wright
possibilities daughter’s chatting on facebook wife’s filling in answers poorly on our son’s homework while he divides his attention between cartoons and video games and I’m waiting for a text message from a woman who may or may not love me who may or may not go back to her husband or run away with the next guy with clean teeth and thick hair and a passport of possibilities able to deliver her as I’m waiting to be delivered some place better, different some place where no one answers for their actions or explanations for the prior years of inaction and still there’s no text message and this may mean something or it may mean nothing at all and my daughter’s fingers flit across the keyboard communicating with the sort of day-to-day friends she’ll depend on for compassion when I make good my escape and my son will never miss me though for the rest of his life he’ll gun me down in first person shooter dreams and my wife will hate me no more and no less than she’s hated me this last decade I’ve been here without really ever being here
--Karl Koweski
Pair of Suits
with bibles
under their arms going
door to door selling jesus
w/ two year fixed rates
salvation on
the budget plan
like cable TV
100% guaranteed
not to rise
inflation be
damned
In case of flood
toll free numbers
in each book
Hot mail for all you sinners
--Alan Catlin
THE EDITOR I rewrite the poem For the third time Print it out again Ball it up and toss it At the feet of my cat Who shakes it Like a mouse Spits it out Like a bitter pill There will be no fourth time The editor has spoken FAME Today a poet, editor invited me To submit a poem on fame I thought of asking him for money But long ago gave away my soul for free Being a poet I’m already a millionaire 6 AM POEM Lying here alone in bed A gnawing hunger in my belly Soon I’ll take my aching bones To the kitchen table Take my morning dose of pills Sad there is no woman to put them Next to my morning cereal
--A.D. Winans
TIFFANY IN MY BACKPACK
This precious, sterling heart Requests it be returned to its dealer Should it wind up lost
I deem this request laughable Should it escape in this neighborhood No return from here
Unless said dealer has a covert deal With this district’s seedier retailers We’d all like to know about
The trick is to conceal the bourgeoisie logo So the golems don’t hone in like airplanes On beacon signals
This is, after all, the known Tenderknob The amorphous in-between area Where the rich and poor
Rub their shoulders and genitalia Together in a shared depravity Which no one questions
Not even the plainly out of place Out-of-placers who aren’t really quite sure How to react
When cannabis clouds form around their heads Where hot girls openly share studded tongues Right in front of them.
Everyone plying his or her shtick in these parts Still believes they’re a beautiful player Not like down the hill
Where, but for the grace of their goddess They are one bad lover away from landing The gambling gone bad
Whether the dreams move uphill or downhill, they never return.
--Paul Corman Roberts
Punking Up Hank III had a bomb tech rebuild his guitar and amp only way to harness all this riffage-n-rage, all these folks treated like skin cancer buttocks scabs exploding, explaining, rat a tat tat freedom agony, economics, ecstacy sonic with thick blistering picks-n- thermal dreams
--David S. Pointer
Barry
had the
campus
drug czar
in a hardship
headlock when
a cop came
around the
bookstore
corner and
thought Barry
was bad and
side kicked him
into a crumpled
silence and the
drug czar got
up and shot them
both w/ a Glock
10mm taken
off another corpse.
--David S. Pointer
INTO THE NIGHT I have been walking alongside an unknown country road thumb out all day long now. it is summer & the heat beats down on me without mercy reminding me of another country years ago cars slow down & come to a stop only to peel out & spray me with gravel & taunting laughter as I run to them for a lift most of them young kids, some not so young but behaving like bullies a convertible, four young girls (perhaps cheerleaders) all but the driver flash their young breasts & the two in the back moon me watching their young bare asses disappear is like watching my youth leaving me in their rear view mirror as I walk into the night alone. --F.N. Wright
Guanajuato Honeymoon On the disco plaza by the light of the chupacabra moon we did the tequila tango until the local chicos y chicas threw Virgin Mary tortillas at us and begged us in Spanish to get a fucking room. In the middle of the witching hour the ghost of Selena got in bed with us and asked us to rub her feet. I was pretty turned on but I was shy so I filled the tub with Epsom salt and hot water and soaked with my eyes closed, dreaming of the Gulf of Mexico back when it was electricity free.
--Misti Rainwater-Lites