COLEMAN BOMAR


Coleman Bomar is a poet who currently resides in Middle Tennessee (USA).
He is an Isaac Anderson fellow at Maryville College and a member of the
International English Honors Society, Sigma Tau Delta. His works have been
featured by and are forthcoming in Impressions Literary Magazine, Aphelion
Webzine
, The Heartland Review, Literary Yard, Anti-Heroin Chic, Showbear
Family Circus Liberal Arts Magazine
, and Prometheus Dreaming.






Caricatures

On Broadway street in Nashville
A baggy probably seventy something man
With breath like mustard and wet cigars
Is drawing caricatures for seven dollars each.
He waves me over, but what's worth parody on a face like mine?
Well drawn, yet the features already uneven and full
Of their own exaggerated presence:
The Eyes which crescent in moon lit blue
Bouncing from faces like dirty pond ripples,
Ears that hear their own lobes flapping and nothing else,
Lips craving the last breath, the last word, the last kiss,
A heart having low vacancy,
A head which refuses all this in pride.
I sit on a ripped stool as the artist begins
Scribbling, contorting, twisting, clenching his teeth
And finally, when his sweaty work is done
And he turns the cartoon portrait toward the light
I see myself mirrored on paper,
My face as it is and always has been,
Unchanged,
Down to the faintest line.






Ode to Latrinalia

To the scrawl on white tile and plastic stalls,
To the drawn dicks, curse words and
Inked in musings,
I say thank you
For A+J 4ever and the alphabet in love,
For sexual frustration
As bad advice
And scribble scratched genitals,
For boobs like circles,
Bodies like sticks
And smiling faces of four lines
Privy to drunk restroom encounters,
For ten-digit baby mommas
And purple sharpie advertising,
For the Man who
Sits vulnerably alone,
Breathing bleach and toxicity,
Considering
The machismo vomit on the walls
And who he is meant to be
In his very own head.
To the rural gas station stops and fast food toilets:
Thank you for a good time
That's just a call away.






My Husband's Eyes

The glazed carnival mirrors
Of my husband's cataracts
Reflect me in the worst way.
My butt too big.
My heart too small.
I used to do my makeup
In his eyes.
Now I wipe
Crumbs from his lip
And dress him
In that shirt he always hated.






Hayloft Siren

Hay sticks to your bare back
In a barn that smells like sweat and
Manure,
Wreathed with country sex.
Your hand in the crook of my arm
Grappling closer.
Snug like the gun in your daddy's
Shoulder.
Maybe I'll understand when we're older
Why he wants a hole in my heart
For "stealing" yours.
I should have stuffed my nose with wax
Before perfume pulled me, hypnotic,
To that hayloft all farm boys go to die.



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