I want a poem that threatens the reader with psychic damage the way that a 45 auto could take out the eyes. I want a poem to be so dangerous that just the simple reading of it could take you right to the existential brink of whoever or whatever you are or could ever hope to be. I want a book of poetry to be as lethal as a razor to the jugular. This time a nick, the next a slash. I want to see a book of Outlaw Poetry to be so dangerous it might bear this warning: Reading this book could be dangerous to your mental health.

- Todd Moore
Albuquerque, New Mexico
(14 November 1937 – 12 March 2010)
Used with permission of Outlaw Poetry

Coors in a Can
Coors in a Can
He would slice Velveeta cheese
real thick.
He would slice an onion
even thicker.
Putting them together,
taking a bite
the moisture of the onion
sent flavor into the air.
A few moments of chewing
everything mixed
was washed down
with a can of Coors beer.

Coors in a can
was his monster
and his monitor.
A road trip or a drive
was not twenty miles away,
it was a three
or four beer drive.
These were his treats,
his vise
were the Winston cigarette
that always dangled
from his mouth.

With a black felt Stetson
cowboy hat,
Tony Lama boots
and in the summer
Bermuda shorts.
He was one of the grandest men
I have ever known.

Things changed
when he started pissing himself.
He could not control
what the disease,
that was attacking him from inside,
was doing.

He sliced some Velveeta cheese
real thick.
He sliced an onion
even thicker.
Putting them together,
taking a bite,
the moisture of the onion
sent flavor into the air.
A few moments of chewing
then washed down
with Coors in a can.
He took his hat off
and for the first time
laid it down
brim first.
He struck a wooden match
and put it to the end of the Winston
dangling from his mouth
and filled his lungs with smoke.
One last drink
that emptied
the Coors in a can
then doing something
he never thought possible,
he placed the muzzle
of his Colt revolver
deep into his mouth.

- Dan Abernathy

Her Gift
A lady sits and combs her long gray hair
with slow and graceful strokes
while reliving the memories of her youth.
Age delivers the realization,
the promises she was taught to believe
now wisped away with the slightest breeze.
She sits, quietly combing,
shocked, angry and silently weeps
that her dreams turned to lies
as she waited
and did nothing to bring them alive.

Young girls sit in their rooms
and cry over lost love
only to cry harder
over the loss of their virginity
as it is realized the gift was stolen
as a prize, or trophy
in an uncaring numbers quest.

An old man walks with a worn cane,
limping from the damage done to his legs
as each step of progress
carries the load of others
desperately clinging onto his success
hoping for a crumb of notoriety.

The lady sits and combs her long gray hair
with slow and graceful strokes
while reliving the memories of her youth
wondering if the old man would not limp
if she had not lost her gift to the brother,
of this man she wished to have it.

- Dan Abernathy