Megan Thoma

Megan Thoma
Megan Thoma is a writer and a teacher living in Providence, RI. She has work published in The Little White Poetry Journal and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. She is also the current Providence and NorthBeast Individual Grand Slam Champion. Her students don't believe teachers are real people who "drive cars and have solo dance parties in their basement." She does both these things. She is very, very real.

Two Poems (March 20, 2009. Issue 15.) On the political ramification of anal sex. And dinosaurs. RAWR! I am a dinosaur. From the future! A time-traveling reptelic professor of secrets. Mystery absolver. Ancient enigma eraser. Raaauuuurggghhhh! Here to lead you to enlightenment. And stop all this tabloid textbook nonsense. Dinosaurs weren’t wiped out by a cosmic comet of fire. Our skin wasn’t fried. Our flesh didn’t melt. Our blood didn’t simmer until it turned to steam. That is ridiculous. It was the sex. The anal sex that did us in. One day all the lady dinosaurs got mad at us and pulled some Lysistrata crap, being righteous, refusing us, sexually. But we were MEAN, ANGRY,FEROCIOUS, HUNGRY dinosaurs that would not be denied. Raaauuuurggghhhh! We were BEASTS! BIG SCARY BEASTS that could not masturbate with such tiny arms and heavy hands and lonely hearts. So we made do. And it was good. Triceratops learned to tiptoe. Stegosaurus to sneak. To get it hard, to slip it in. Velociraptors feigned fear, But it was all an act. We liked it. The slippery, scaly goodness. 9 foot tails To yank, to bite, to strangle yourself with. Dusk in the swamp was a rumbling choir of deep moans and roars. Mud slipped over scales, the tipping and tumbling of ferocious bodies: lightheaded and falling into seismic baaaboooom swamp cannonballs. The pumping. The speed. The force. The claws. The last gigantic RAAAAWWWRRRRR that shakes up from your gut, through your heart as you cum and cum and cum until your lover explodes, pupils shot, exhausted and sedated. Dinocock melted. Bodies relaxed, and thick hot swamp mud slowly seeped up, swallowing Every heroic beast, too quiet in happy exhale to fight back. Few survived. The women got lonely and stubborn, followed us in, annoyed at their own suicides. And so it goes. No more dinosaurs. Until now. In the future. In the future, they breed us. Make us nice and fat. Put our still breathing bodies into airplane hanger pressure cookers until out brains explode into an oily mist. I hear it is cool to watch. And that is why I am here, tonight: to warn you as your election approaches. Vote democrat and anal sex will win, wipe you all out with its tight, hot goodness. Vote republican and you’ll need oil so badly, the scientists will have to bring dinosaurs back. Which is cool. So good luck election day and the rest of eternity. Because if you make your political decisions based on what some li’l ol’ dinosaur from the future says— you deserve exactly what you get. House sitting for Neil Armstrong. House sitting for Neil Armstrong. We got drunk. And then we got stoned. And then . . . we found the moon rocks. Ryan paid Peter $5 to “fart on the moon.” Then Peter paid Jackie $20 to lick the moon rock because she had been in the bathroom during the farting. We rolled dollar bills, poorly, because we were seventeen and lived in the suburbs and didn’t know how to use public transportation let alone drive a rocket. And while my friends snorted moon rock crumbs, I snuck off into a guestroom with Ricky (and a moon rock) to make out. Because that’s what you do when you’re trashed and in love and house sitting for Neil Armstrong. And eventually there was moon rock being dabbed erotically over vagina, which was the best we were going to do because moon rock is rough and not shaped like a penis and really, I think Ricky was just playing astronaut anyways. Some day, I will be young again. The chalk surface of my skin will be new again. I will be the untouched silt of want while teenagers in the next room scratch canyons into their arms with safety pins, rub moon dust into the wound to make black smudge tattoos of God. Listen . . . guy. Do not roll your eyes when I tell you my pussy is out of this world, that I taste of the blackest night. The universe has been here a really long time. And the moon is so much more than you’ve ever imagine.

Megan Thoma is a writer and a teacher living in Providence, RI. She has work published in The Little White Poetry Journal and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. She is also the current Providence and NorthBeast Individual Grand Slam Champion. Her students don't believe teachers are real people who "drive cars and have solo dance parties in their basement." She does both these things. She is very, very real.

Two Poems (March 20, 2009. Issue 15.)

On the political ramification of anal sex.
And dinosaurs.

RAWR! I am a dinosaur. From the future!
A time-traveling reptelic professor of secrets. Mystery
absolver. Ancient enigma eraser. Raaauuuurggghhhh!
Here to lead you to enlightenment. And stop all this
tabloid textbook nonsense.

Dinosaurs weren’t wiped out by a cosmic comet
of fire. Our skin wasn’t fried. Our flesh didn’t
melt. Our blood didn’t simmer until it turned to steam.
That is ridiculous.
It was the sex.
The anal sex that did us in.

One day all the lady dinosaurs got mad at us and pulled
some Lysistrata crap, being righteous, refusing us, sexually.

But we were MEAN, ANGRY,FEROCIOUS,
HUNGRY dinosaurs that would not be denied.

Raaauuuurggghhhh!

We were BEASTS! BIG SCARY BEASTS
that could not masturbate with such tiny arms
and heavy hands and lonely hearts.

So we made do.
And it was good.

Triceratops learned to tiptoe. Stegosaurus to sneak.
To get it hard, to slip it in. Velociraptors feigned fear,
But it was all an act. We liked it.

The slippery, scaly goodness. 9 foot tails
To yank, to bite, to strangle yourself with.

Dusk in the swamp was a rumbling choir of deep moans and roars.
Mud slipped over scales, the tipping and tumbling of ferocious bodies:
lightheaded and falling into seismic baaaboooom
swamp cannonballs. The pumping. The speed. The force. The claws.
The last gigantic RAAAAWWWRRRRR
that shakes up from your gut, through your heart as you cum
and cum and cum until your lover explodes, pupils shot,
exhausted and sedated.

Dinocock melted.
Bodies relaxed, and thick hot swamp mud slowly seeped up, swallowing
Every heroic beast, too quiet in happy exhale to fight back.

Few survived.

The women got lonely and stubborn,
followed us in, annoyed at their own suicides.

And so it goes. No more dinosaurs.
Until now. In the future.

In the future, they breed us. Make us nice and fat.
Put our still breathing bodies into airplane hanger pressure cookers
until out brains explode into an oily mist.
I hear it is cool to watch.

And that is why I am here, tonight:
to warn you as your election approaches.

Vote democrat and anal sex will win,
wipe you all out with its tight, hot goodness.

Vote republican and you’ll need oil so badly,
the scientists will have to bring dinosaurs back.
Which is cool.

So good luck election day and the rest of eternity.

Because if you make your political decisions
based on what some li’l ol’ dinosaur from the future says—
you deserve exactly
what you get.

House sitting for Neil Armstrong.

House sitting for Neil Armstrong. We got drunk. And then we got stoned. And then . . . we found the moon rocks. Ryan paid Peter $5 to “fart on the moon.” Then Peter paid Jackie $20 to lick the moon rock because she had been in the bathroom during the farting. We rolled dollar bills, poorly, because we were seventeen and lived in the suburbs and didn’t know how to use public transportation let alone drive a rocket. And while my friends snorted moon rock crumbs, I snuck off into a guestroom with Ricky (and a moon rock) to make out. Because that’s what you do when you’re trashed and in love and house sitting for Neil Armstrong. And eventually there was moon rock being dabbed erotically over vagina, which was the best we were going to do because moon rock is rough and not shaped like a penis and really, I think Ricky was just playing astronaut anyways.

Some day, I will be young again. The chalk surface of my skin will be new again. I will be the untouched silt of want while teenagers in the next room scratch canyons into their arms with safety pins, rub moon dust into the wound to make black smudge tattoos of God.

Listen . . . guy. Do not roll your eyes when I tell you my pussy is out of this world, that I taste of the blackest night. The universe has been here a really long time. And the moon is so much more than you’ve ever imagine.