a poetry e-zine










Poems By Kevin Peterson

the entertainment for the celebration of little Jimmy's fortunate
execution of life for a consecutive seven years
was a balding, overweight man with coffee-breath.
his costume was adorned with dingy stripes of pale red
that struggled to curve around his enormous belly.
his dusty hair was stiff with hair gel;
if you touched it, it would crumble into a cloud of orange dust.
his white face paint was cracked, like pavement.
a huge, false, mouth was painted on in crimson,
freezing his expression to an ironic cackle.
he struggled, as if asthmatic, to breathe into a balloon
and contorted and sprained the screeching rubber until it was in the likeness
of a viciously blue Saharan jackal.
he fed a malnourished white rabbit a carrot-stick,
then proceeded to deceive the children.
they were convinced he had vanished the creature
through the use of witchcraft, when in reality,
he had shoved it into a large pocket on the back of his dirty one-piece.
when he was finally finished with his grand masquerade,
he packed his things into a paper grocery bag
and in a cloud of exhaust, sped off in a maroon sedan with missing hubcaps.

Kevin Peterson was raised in Birmingham, AL, and he currently works at a local library. He will be 24 years old in May, and he is currently finishing up a degree in Philosophy at the University of Alabama, with a minor in Creative Writing. He plans to get an MFA in Creative Writing upon completion of his Undergraduate studies.

Copyright 2009  Chantarelle's Notebook