portion of artwork for Dennis Mahagin's poems

The 23 Anaphylactic Perforations of D’Onofrio
Dennis Mahagin


in my attic, stomping his Doc Martens for the dust motes; it seems
he’s making quite a scene up there, shoving a naked hairy forearm
like Houdini through empty picture frames. Vince winces,
as though humerus-deep and scarified by busted window
panes. D’Onofrio grunts, and gropes for his reflection
in same.


My second
cousin claimed he half-heartedly beat D’Onofrio
about the buttocks and shins with bricks
of Dove soap stuffed in a striped
tube sock, as an extra
in some Kubrick flick; D’Onofrio squealed
like a pregnant hyena, so the Best Boys used
their bag of tricks, softly cooing and rubbing
Vince down with Tiger Balm.


wore root-beer-colored
high top Keds
with a much-too-tight
tuxedo at his traumatic
high school prom
in Miami.


D’Onofrio shoved
the hairline electrode
in a frog leg, grinning
and shuddering
a bit,

when the AC
current spit,

and a camouflage-colored tendon
on the chrome table top in Biology lab
went from Medium
to Xtra Long.


often comes
to the point
especially when
he knows
he’s in the


D’Onofrio was snooping around
when he stumbled upon my secret
closet where I keep the collection
of three hundred
bald caps


D’Onofrio asked me:

Did you ever drink
ditch water as a little kid, or play “Operation”
all by yourself on lonesome Sunday afternoons?


D’Onofrio rides
the Shetland pony side
saddle. D’Onofrio rides the bashful,
eyelash-batting Shetland
pony side saddle.


When D’Onofrio’s infant nephew
in Boulder City had the colic,
D’Onofrio blew
a purple cloud
of bong hit smoke
with bits of pulverized pineapple
into the child’s beet-red, pudgy
and hideously pinched face.


D’Onofrio bakes
his lasagna
three feet thick
with a whole hindquarter
of ground chuck, gallon jugs
of cottage cheese and homemade
pasta he pulls
lovingly like
wet lingerie
from an old
fashioned washer-
dryer that works upon
the principle of rolling
pins and


Vince is crestfallen, since
it seems that once again he’s
forgotten to charge the battery in his accursed 3G chocolate
smart phone.


D’Onofrio drag-raced
his dad’s precious Delta 88 station wagon until the U joint gave
way like a herniated intestine, and the pings and clanks and sinking
feeling with moth guts all a-drip on the spider-cracked
windshield making Everyman’s Rorschach blot.


D’Onofrio sipped Southern Comfort and cold
blueberry syrup, bent double and dry heaving
on the grave of Jackson Pollock.


D’Onofrio sits
in a pool of standing water,
waving about a lackluster
extension cord

like Lash Larue with low testosterone
and a lasso
for lament.


D’Onofrio decided a long,
long time ago that Cream of Wheat
farina cereal in the early A.M. reminded him
of slow horrifying Death by Quicksand (sickly
concentric, centrifugal) and that he’d never
power-lunch under a barber pole,
nor bow for no man.


D’Onofrio has a fake AK-47 that shoots
gin and juice, canned snakes, and plastic
pastel sea horses like swizzle sticks
at a Trader Vic’s.


D’Onofrio teaches
Stanislavski Method Workshops in La Jolla,
where he tells his star-struck students
not to waste their time
being angry Oz apple trees with silver body paint, but rather
Lapsed Globe-Trotting Vegetarians with such violent cravings
for turkey and grease, it kick starts a fugue state, or
at least a series of horrific Grand Mal


D’Onofrio just offered you a choice
between a Bad Knuckle Forehead Noogie
or a magic trick involving amputation

of the thumb.


D’Onofrio badly wishes to dance
The Bump.


late at night, D’Onofrio hears
the lonesome summer wind
sough and sough
through aspen
tree branches and believes he
has had quite


D’Onofrio feels
clean and sexy in a skin-tight
Honey Bee Tube Top, his eyes roll
back to the whites;
but that’s quite
all right.


D’Onofrio is doing Tai Chi for the Brooklyn paparazzi
in a Hicks crosswalk strewn with used condoms, soggy
confetti and the chalk outline
of a dead body.


It’s D’Onofrio’s
last stop; he pulls
the cheap chain
like a rip cord.

Our Vincent is bound
to get off.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 27 | Law & Order Issue | Winter 2010