Hitlers Mustache: A Mustache Confession
I feel like a bad mustache a lot of the time. With no friends, and for good reason, greedy and mean and not worth the time. I recognize this sensation often as the symptom of mental mustache but more often as the truth. Who knows about masks? Not me. I’m moving at the speed of light and the occurrence of seeing light gets mustache, etc. I want to tell something about myself, but, mustache.
And of course you’ll consider me rude and histrionic and mustache, but it’s the truth. For a whole lifetime a person is a human. A person is a person whether they know it or not. And if they do, if they feel as if they have a chance, even Superman can’t see through lead. So they might find it, snuggled as if children under flannel sheets, huddling and gaining strength, jumping out from closed closet doors and yelling “Boo!” It may remind them of their own children or of mustaches they can’t put in their cranium and lull to sleep. The whole time becoming blacker and more like a doorway or trapdoor, removing doubt about devout thoughts. There is a mustache. There is one and we all know it. Call it a black, square magnet, or a black square mustache—still this chalkboard is full of chalk. Some mustache has stood in front of this room for a long time with the back of his shirt un-tucked and sweat in his armpits, jotting some mustache code.
Hitlers Mustache: The Mustache Being Creepy on the Bus
The mustache was staring a stake through June,
she could feel the mustache peering, felt stress
creeping from the mustache like a blood moon.
The mustache knew he was prone to obsess.
Once, a young mustache, he watched a snake
for so long the mustache point became moot.
Though he felt his mustache (ice cream to her cake)
melting to a dead mustache, her beauti-
ful discomfort was a mustache Garbo,
mustache mystery on par with foreplay,
the mustache train carrying a hobo
whose mustache name was Mustache Lovely Day.
In Junes sqare eyes, the mustache saw rhinestone.
In her black fear, mustache smelt hair cologne.
Hitlers Mustache: The Short Story
Important arrangements were to be made. The party would not plan itself. She sat on her square, black sofa, dreaming about the decorations and imagining the caterer and even some of the clothes her guests might be wearing. It made her happy to think like this. But, soon enough, her grand hopes began to settle like soft snow on the warm floor of the situation. She didn’t have much money. A. would never get behind her on this. Her sister-in-law would drink too much and break her black, square heel and throw her purse in the swimming pool and fall asleep in a lawn chair. There were bills that needed to be paid now. If only she had never met mustache. If only he hadn’t mustached her aunt in a furnace, or
breaded her over an open mustache.
That evening while her husband and children ate the food she had carefully mustached for them, she got an idea. Perhaps, she thought, if I were to mistake something for mustache. It seemed perfect. It covered all the angles. A. would get behind it because he needed that mustache. Her sister-in-law would take care of the bills. The cold snow began to melt. As a metaphor for her mood the cold snow no longer made sense and began to drift upward, out of the story, out of the poem, existing only in the past, in another time, one that seemed much bleaker.
The next morning she packed the children’s lunches and pressed A.’s shirt for him. After the kids were on the bus, and A. kissed her cheek and drove the Volkswagen down the long driveway, she fed the mustache and packed her baggage. She called the mustache. Put a note on the door for the mustache, and left, making sure she left the mustache slightly cracked so the mustache would be able to mustache the mustache.
The day was hot and by the time she reached the airport she was sweating through her shirt. She fanned herself with a mustache and nervously surveyed the situation. There were two guards near the mustache. Each mustache looked like it held mustache. She ordered a cup of mustache from the mustache who worked behind the mustache.
Mustache knew that she couldn’t mustache about this forever. She’d have to make up her mind mustache. She studied the mustache. She thought about all of the mustache in her mustache. All of the mustache. All of the mustache and mustache and must ache and mustache. She thought about the mustaches when her mustache was put in mustache. She took one more mustache of mustache. She mustached. She mustached her mustache and with every mustache of her mustache, mustached.
Peter Davis
© Peter Davis
Many thanks to Peter Davis, poet and musician – and all-around nice guy – for letting us publish three idiosyncratic and deeply original poems, from his seminal debut collection Hitlers Mustache (The Barnwood Press, 2006).
Every poem has the title ”Hitlers Mustache [something]”. Each and every one of the poems are about Hitlers mustache, or maybe, none of them really are about Hitlers mustache? Read three poems from Davis collection, hugely entertaining and thought provoking Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! (Bloof Books, 2010). Visit Peter Davis homepage, for more poems, interviews, amongst other things.
Ola Wihlke
BearBooks 