Alex DeLoach
Hi there! I'm a Texas-born, Memphis-raised, Miami-embittered writer, computer programmer, and political inactivist. My self-published 1999 book, P.I.T.S.: Post-Industrial Trauma Syndrome sold approximately forty copies; rather than make more, I blew the money on food and clothing, then lost a good chunk of the originals. I'm fond of cats, chess, tennis, neutral colors, old DOS and Atari video games, and wild kinky sex. I've been in Madison for a month now. I like it here and would stay. However, I've yet to find a place of shelter indoors. I prefer to remain economically inactive, especially in times of war and depression. You might say I'm a conscientious objector to the economy as well as the military. However, I have worked as everything from computer programmer to fast food order-taker to librarian to groundskeeper. I'm very talented at scavenging and urban survival - but, with the blizzard season upon us, I find myself desperate for either some form of shelter here in Madison, or a ride to sunnier climes.


VENOM

Did you envision this venom, and did you envenom this sword,
whose blade traces 'round me, rotten to the core?

Did you prick your finger whilst dancing the dance of assassins past?
Were their wise worried faces looking down on your last gasp?

Were your muscles straining against a leash that was not there?
When I put the lash against your ass, was it not bare?

Was it you who dared enter, dared murder, dared whisper,
 or was it just some frightened old soul,
wishing they'd never gone off wishing?

I'm convinced 'twas my own cunt lips,
stretching 'round us to protect us from the storm.
Your venomous vision remains a stain, but now we've awakened, safe and warm.

• • • • •

IT HAS NOT HAPPENED

No blade has carved so beautifully,
No tongue caressed so lithely,
No muscle flexed so strenuously,
No pen written so furiously,
No speech pointed out so indelibly,
No figure reclined so seductively,

That it could convince me to give half a fucking damn about you

• • • • •

ABOUT NOTHING

This is not a poem about dragons and goblins and butterflies
This is not a poem about power outages, cheap beer, or graveyards
Nor is it about Kate Moss or Mumia Abu-Jamal or John Travolta or Barry Goldwater
Nor is it about schoolyard fights, circumcision,
    new-age crystal-gazers or the Cuban embargo

I'm not gonna stand here and bore you with my theories
    on physics and race relations and
    organic farming and engineering software for backward compatibility
I also feel no need to subject you to my rantings
    about cable TV or Jehovah's Witnesses
    or mixed drinks or urban sprawl or the effects of the our service-based
    economy on the feminist and post-feminist movements.

I won't tell you about bricklaying
I won't get into natural childbirth
I won't touch on subliminal messages
I'll not even mention pipecleaners

Perhaps most importantly,
I shall deprive you all of the electrifying experience of
a seven-page treatise dealing with
the engineering and maintenance of garbage compactors

Why am I being so cautious about what information I will leak?
Do I not trust you?
Am I trying to be dark, spooky and mysterious?
Am I just killing time until one of you buys me a beer?
A girl's got to have her secrets...
None of you ever, ever shall be empowered by the knowledge
Of the subject or purpose of this piece of writing

Never, asshole.