Archive for the Todd Moore Category

Todd Moore

Posted in Todd Moore on October 21, 2014 by Scot

found

tina head
down on
the steer
ing wheel
the sawed
off shot
gun on
the seat
beside her
was splat
tered w/
blood a
one dol
lar bill was
taped to
the wind
shield she
had some
of her
brains in
her lap

–archives, Deuce Coupe, August 2009

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Todd Moore

Posted in Todd Moore with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

taking turnstodd

firing 22
slugs thru
the wrecked
truck’s win
dows reno
puts one
dead center
thru the
windshield
i nail the
driver’s side
door which
was already
shredded
reno sez
it almost
feels like
we’re
shooting
at people
i hand
the 22
pistol off
to him he
kisses the
barrel
puts one
in the hood

____________

(today is my old man’s birthday.  Alive, he’d be 109 so this is for my old man.)

i sd you

got whiskey
dripping
off yr fingers
my old
man glanced
at his
hand
licked it
off & sd
next to
pussy i
cd eat
whiskey
all day
long he
gave me a
crooked
tooth smile
sd the only
thing better
is pussy
w/blood

____________

pig iron

had the
blackjack
going a
cross
ziegler’s
face
z kept
trying to
duck but
the jack
knew
where
z’s face
wd be
jack
on skin
sound
was like
raw meat
talking

todd moore

Posted in Todd Moore with tags on February 12, 2012 by Scot

when the

wolf
discovered
its legs
had been
shot off
it lay
on its
side in
the long
night of
snow
& began
to tell
stories from
way
back in
the eyes

–Todd Moore

a rusty truck tribute to todd moore by rd armstrong, charles plymell, fn wright, karl koweski, alan catlin, a.d. winans, paul corman roberts, david s pointer, misti rainwater lites, pete lally & scot young

Posted in A.D. Winans, Alan Catlin, charles plymell, David S. Pointer, F.N. Wright, Karl Koweski, Misti Rainwater-Lites, Paul Corman Roberts, Pete Lally, RD Armstrong, Scot Young, Todd Moore, TODD MOORE TRIBUTE with tags on October 10, 2010 by Scot

 

This issue dedicated to the memory and the poetry of Todd Moore

Poems by Todd Moore
& Friends

Todd Moore

1937-2010

 

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Todd Moore was the literary prize

Posted in Todd Moore with tags , on March 13, 2010 by Scot

Todd Moore was a teacher, outlaw poet and a great story teller.  I think all good teachers are outlaws to a certain degree.  I didn’t  know him as long as some of you but I can tell you we connected.  I don’t do that with a lot of people.  Maybe it was because we were both former English teachers; maybe it was because our fathers had similar traits.  Or maybe it was because he was just a class act.

Going through our emails today I found three poems he sent me I never published.  Not because they weren’t good–they all were good but because of my organizational abilities.  I thought about running them here today but Todd preferred print.  So they will go in the next Rusty Truck Issue 2 or 3 or maybe a chapbook we never got around to doing.  He has several poems here and the deuce coupe, so on this day take in a few.  He was a friend early on to the Rusty Truck and the Deuce Coupe and he will be missed.  When I began the Pushcart process he sent me this:
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The Book of Jack

Posted in Alan Catlin, Doug Draime, F.N. Wright, Father Luke, Hosho McCreesh, Rusty Truck echaps, Scot Young, Todd Moore with tags on February 21, 2010 by Scot

Art by F.N. Wright

Click on Jack–for best viewing go to fullscreen and use arrow that appears on the right to turn pages.

A Rusty Truck Valentine’s Day

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin, Dianne Borsenik, F.N. Wright, Father Luke, Rebecca Schumejda, Scot Young, Todd Moore, valentines anthology with tags , on February 14, 2010 by Scot

Valentine’s Day

Cable network runs The Godfather movies
back-to-back on Valentine’s Day for men like
Mikey Meatballs and Bobby-Balls-In-Hand,
who spent the day playing straight pool
and quoting lines in unison:
“You sonofabitch, do you know who I am?
I’m Moe Greene! I made my bones
when you were going out with cheerleaders.”

Last night, in bed, my husband warned me
that Valentine’s Day is a synthetic holiday
placed between Christmas and Easter
to boost the economy.

As Bobby’s about to run out the table,
I lean into the counter, trying to be original,
press my pen against a ninety-nine cent card
but am distracted, like Bobby is,
by Mikey belching the alphabet.

I salvage a crooked arrow piercing a lopsided heart,
but Bobby can’t take back a scratch.

–Rebecca Schumejda

_____________________________________
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