ditch,

the poetry that matters

David B. McCoy

David B. McCoy is a Social Studies teacher in a township school near Massillon, Ohio, and an ordained member of the Spiritual Humanist Clergy.

Since 1979, David has run Spare Change Press, which in 2007 went to a web-based format for its Solo Flyer.

David is the author of Ohio Wineries Guidebook; the Internet book, Buffalo Time;  The Geometry of Blue: Prose and Selected Poetry, and Voices from Behind the Mask.  (Ordering information can be found at www.dbmccoy.info )

 

 

I was born an island.  A dozen or so people lived on me.  No, I don’t know that exact number, and no, I don’t know which ocean…might have been in the Black Sea as far as I know.  Most of the inhabitants were likable.  A few were not.  I enjoyed it most when they built fires or made love.  One day we were all rescued.  The people boarded a large cruise ship, and I was towed to an enclosed bay where I walked out onto land to begin my life as a Chinese paper dragon.

 

 

The woman yearning for a mate has changed herself into a monarch butterfly and is flying to Mexico.  By the time she reaches the boarder, she realizes that she has been overtaken by reproductive diapause.  Out of frustration, the woman who changed herself into a monarch butterfly changes herself into a quail egg and falls to the ground where the rodents, the rodents, the rodents…

 

 

 

 

The forest is sobbing in grief and bald heads are pushing up though boggy soil.  In a room across the way, plastic flowers rest on a kitchen table.  As the sound of distant hunting horns fill the breeze, bald heads emerge through the floor.  Damn! Damn! Damn! The woman in the room across the way says without interrupting her methodical passion for placing plastic flowers on the kitchen table.

 

  

 

While sunbathing on a small raft, a man with a jack hammer appears and splits open my chest where

he plants a bushy tree.  When I ask him why on earth he just split open my chest and planted a

bushy tree, he tells me, “Because you were dreaming of having some shade.”

 

 

 

 

Mona Lisa’s smile has moved into our neigh-borhood.  Daily, faces drive by her house hoping to snatch a glimpse.  Once in a while I do see Mona Lisa’s smile peaking out from behind her curtains—but she appears rather reserved and shy. Only on holidays, when Andy Warhol’s wig drops by, do you hear a peep out of her. But when you do, you’d think all hell is breaking loose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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