deep cleveland - featured poets & artists

featured poets & artists

robert ryan mullen

Ryan Robert Mullen (RR) is self-educated, born in 1981, lives in Madison, WI, bachelor a la Carte, loves to read and make love and write so late it's morning, views head as neural computer and tries to feed it good things, works in Old Media. ryan@ryanrobertmullen.net or www.ryanrobertmullen.net.

Bike Fighter

I never got close enough to figure-out why he was so mad. Just people, I guess. I took a real interest in Bike Fighter. He was the only man I'd ever known who felt half a feeling. He was like a future-self. He was really pissed-off. First time I saw the guy he was weaving mad fast between cars like he just didn't care. People in cars hopping-mad and beeping like punches they'd like to throw. They wanted to hurt him, to really hurt him. So this suit and sunglasses type sticks his head out the window of his black Grand Cherokee, proceeds to shout some evil stuff. Bike Fighter turns around like his body full of poison snakes, and the face that he made -it was the most sincere human gesture I'd ever seen. If Bike Fighter would've closed his eyes I am almost sure a wave of BLACK would've fallen over the land and broken all our little bones. Immediatly I respected him. They called him Bike Fighter because most the time his bicycle took the brunt. My dad would make a joke, he'd say the guy was shouting, "Why won't you pedal!" That bike would really be shown who's boss -somehow, like Prometheus's liver, it'd just be there the next day and he'd continue to ride. He couldn't get rid of that bike no matter how hard he tried.

If You Can't Beat Them

One of Kenny's superstitions was his thing with black ants, Lasius Niger. He had been a regular ant-Hitler when he was a kid. Kenny was an ant-slaughtering pro, he knew the best chemicals, the architecture of their labyrinths. Mass-destruction was no problem, but what was most enjoyable was the torture of a single large juicy specimen. You know, maybe remove a leg or just slightly crush it. Kenny was not a cruel boy, and he is not a cruel man. For one, he couldn't kill anybody. One time, when he was maybe sixteen, he shot his first animal. You see, he'd been given this Red Ryder Special Edition Daisy air-rifle and his dad used it sometimes to scare squirrels off the bird-feeder. So one time, his parents aren't home and he sees this little chipmunk just munching some bird food, so he figures he'll wear the pants and gets out the air-rifle. Somehow, he nailed the puffy-cheeked little bugger square in it's eye. It quivered on the ground, suffering. That image kinda burnt itself into Kenny's brain. He throws down the gun and goes crying like a sissy up to his room. Kenny called his girlfriend and confessed the whole thing to her. He didn't sleep right, this is because Kenny is superstitious. So now Kenny is all grown-up, like twenty-two, but he has this superstition with ants. Last week, at work, there was a big black one in the urinal, just crawling around. It would have been so easy to walk away. But Kenny had to go and make a little bridge out of a paper-towel so it could get out. He felt he had just killed so many, so many ants he'd killed. And now, now that he was a man with a soul, he meant to redeem his past misactions. That's what this kid was like, like living in some kind of dreamland. One day he told me he was actually now KING OF THE ANTS.

Angie, Double-Naked

She is an innocent girl. Even when we'd make it, she'd make me turn around while she undressed. It was actually pretty beautiful. Sure, I'd be excited and practically jumping out of myself; but it was nice to breath, to hear the soft rustle of fabric and flesh, to hear "Okay, you can look," to know in a few seconds everything I see I can touch. Then this one time she asked me to turn around again. When I'm in bed with an innocent girl I do anything she tells me to, without question. I felt weird standing across the room with everything just hanging out, there were all kinds of feeling I couldn't sort out. Then I hear a great big suck, like the last of a bath going down the drain and she say, "Okay you can look!" Seeing Angie without her skin wasn't like I thought it'd be. Inside wasn't a bunch of guts or white light, it was more like watching things moving underwater, like koi or something. Whatever was down there was bright and suddenly it looked at me. That's why I started crying.

Sincerely, Werewolf

Today I went out. I was like a man going through desert or life; at first confident, then my steps got heavy. Glass store-fronts reflected the imprint solitude had left on me. I really looked the misanthrope. "Misanthrope," the word was associated in my mind with werewolf, for a long time I thought they were the same thing. When I thought of the word "misanthrope" I remembered you and knew you were the right girl for me. I knew you'd never say anything about my socks or lack thereof. You would never care about that. Look, I don't have a photograph so let me explain how I look right now, who I am right now; you know I have curly hair but today, today it is shaggy hair with a side of curls, today is barefeet in beat-up white sneakers, baggy blue dress slacks, a button up baby-blue long-sleeve. It is hot as hell so the sleeves are rolled-up and I'm sweating like mad. The store-fronts reflect, mercilessly reflect me, how I really look. I'm pale, I haven't shaved for like two weeks. Well, I have been shaving the mustache part and yesterday I lopsided my beard. I didn't look good. I looked like I didn't care about looking good, as if this person really was me. I haven't seen my girlfriend for like two weeks, I've been getting lots of writing done. I go into some mall restroom, I stare at my dirty, dirty self. I feel like a real writer from the movies. You are the girl for me, take me quick, before I shower.