Geoffrey Gatza

Pumpkin Pie

I entered into a pumpkin pie contest a few years ago. I lost because of politics and aesthetics. My pie was a conceptual pumpkin pie; it had a crust made up of honey gingered pumpkin slices cut into the shape of the word pumpkin. Over and over again the word pumpkin went into every bite and in every mouthful was a reversal of thought and speech. The word itself inhaled with whipped cream rather than spoken on the cold October air. There was little support for the pie and I lost the contest. It did not taste like thanksgiving; an old woman jeered at me. What is wrong with you, an old man said holding onto a young girl who was crying relentlessly. I never entered another contest and plan to eat my pies in my own home. In my own private pumpkin patch with my own pumpkins and my pumpkin blog and a bowl of pumpkin seeds and I will eat to my fill. There is no other message to believe in, nothing other than my pumpkins and my pumpkins shall prevail if only in my own imaginary nation deep within my super-secret illusionland of Pumpkinvillia. There I shall dwell for hours alone with my cats and a blanket, indulging in my reverse words and idea. This is my pie, not yours. This is my pumpkin, I shall not want.


It became clear to me that it was time to change the inks in the cream fountain pen After you stormed out of the house after reading the note I left for you on the fridge.  The vert green gave the words a tinge of something more than what I was saying, implying, Trying to convey in that slipshod way that I do. Your poems need to bounce higher Than they currently perform. It is as if you are dragging lilac water lines on paper towels; Ghost tracks of what would never be written or attempted by anyone currently living. Just try harder to see what is in front of you and then, open up your mind, your eyes and heart and tell the nice people what you see. It is all right if you never do see, as very few often can see properly, let alone say anything of value, with precision, in a poem. You are not alone in your mediocrity. You ask, why bother? Well, just bother. That is it. What else is there for a poet but to continue on poeting, making things that others may not want, but what the hell else is there in this bland situation you find yourself? This fine apartment in the middle of nowhere is a wonderful place to set a fire. Make the words of you and your eyes and the light that comes between them and continue on. 

Pomme Frite

Twenty-seven years ago he had a May to June romance with the local Ronald McDonald. The delightful incompetence of young love, unveiled cartoons and hand rolled cigarettes failed him, and now that he can remember, cartoons have always been deceivers. He has never quite found love exerted in a quarter pounder with cheese sandwich with that same soft ice cream vigor. It was the way the make-up caught the red drips of ketchup and the marigold tendrils of yellow mustard that made him jump up from that dimensionless space of educator to lover. How an apple is so very sweet, the light rounds his paste colored eyes, the red lips, a beacon of grease beckoning, visit his newly remodeled playground. He ate a hundred thousand times at store #1749 in empty paper cup hopes that he might, one day, return and treat him one more time to a happy meal. Cold attestations of corn syrup, open tubs of sliced green pickles, and the ever-grand golden cow formed into milkshakes and cell phones that tweet out the intendance of assignations. Back then one could only call out to the fields of long grass, or scream to the blond brick walls for the never emergent grown ups. A dusty man arrives to close up with his silver mop and an instinctive white bucket.