“The world discovered Van Gogh after he was dead. Please world—discover Mather Schneider while he’s still alive. He’s that good. And The Bacanora Notebooks is Schneider at his best.”

-Mark Rogers, author of Uppercut

“A love story set in an American southwest colored by housefires and dumps, and bacanora. Frijoles charlas cervezas sudor pobreza plata y amor, stick your nose in Schneider’s working man’s border bible. One of the great reads of 2023, or any other year. Gritty and unapologetic.”

-Colin Gee, author of Lips

“In polished vignettes, Schneiders stripped-down prose exposes the hypocrisy, selfishness, and petty cruelty that’s ubiquitous these days, at the same time expressing great tenderness and compassion for both victims and perpetrators.”

-Mark Parsons, poet

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Leslie

She was desperate,
on the edge,
she was crazy,
she was beautiful,
she was doomed,
abused,
neglected,
cast aside
by family
and friends,
she was lonely
and vulnerable,
perhaps, naïve,
she was honest,
she was lost,
abandoned,
cast into a
desperation
and into
drugs and
prostitution
and beatings
and 
homelessness,
she was strong
and graceful
and held it
together
before she
fled the scene
into suicide
from the roof
of a 
multi-storey
carpark.

Poppie

I want to write a poem about losing my virginity, not the erotic awkward momentousness of the act, but the one second where I’m on the mattress of a creaky fold-out couch in this tiny, dingy studio with the radiators hissing and I’ve already come once before even entering this young woman who is nine years my senior but who somehow thinks—I know how, I lied to her—that I’m actually four years older than her—and yet I’m nineteen, I’m still raring to go and go and go and her tits are nice though I’m not even really sure I like her but she likes me and that’s more than enough and she tells me soft-like, sexy, in a purring tone I’ve never heard before outside of pornos and once through a motel room’s thin walls, to put my dark little dick between her white, white tits and she has these big green eyes, her second nicest feature, the first being that she wants to fuck me, and I shake my head like Jerry refusing to eat the food Poppie made, you know the episode, because Poppie is sloppy, because Poppie didn’t wash his hands after he took a shit, but I don’t know what this refusal means or suggests or reveals, because I’m hard and she’s wet and I’m nineteen. I want to write a poem about that but I don’t know where to start.

Demon Therapy 

At eight O’clock on Saturday night Duke and Sally heard some thumping from the bedroom.  They climbed the stairs with baseball bats and slowly opened the door. 

They saw a couple of humanoid giants on top of each other thrashing about. 

Duke “Night Angel – you’re back.  I haven’t seen you ….“ 

Sally interrupts “And Night Monster.  You too?” 

Night Angel explained “That’s right.  The two of us helped you with your –uh-difficulties – before you got married with the workouts we gave you.  We snuck in the last few days at night.  It looks like you could use us again.  We decided to practice some of our lessons before you showed up.” 

“What do you mean?” Duke asked. 

Night Monster explained “You don’t even touch each other much anymore.  You’re too young to give up on the sexual side of life.” 

“It’s not true, Sally and I got it on just, uh when was it Sally?” 

“This year for sure.” 

“Ok, tell us this.  Can the two of you take a refresher course?” 

The humans looked at each other, thought about what they were doing up until the last couple of years and said “Sure.” 

Night Angel said “OK, let’s start with the basics.  You both work.  Try not to take anything home with you. Cut down on the alcohol and fast food.  Eat healthy food.  Get outdoors and move around as much as possible without wearing yourself out.  See if meditation will clear your mind.  Try to follow those steps for about a month before you go for more intimacy.  You have to get both body and mind in shape.  Hugging and kissing help too.” 

Ten days after the initial session a package from N. Monster and N. Angel appeared on their doorstep.  Sally picked it up and asked Duke “How do demons send packages?” 

“They must do it at night.  Maybe they have a side hustle we don’t know about and have a checking or credit account.  They wouldn’t have any trouble selling their bodies to get the cash and could have done all of their ordering at night.  Let’s see what it is.” 

The package had brightly colored manuals and toys.  A note told them to have a blast.  Over that evening and into the next morning they had used ten kilowatts of electricity powering the gadgets and made it 12% of the way through the 2021 edition of the Readers Digest Kama Sutra.  

After a couple of months, the night demons visited the humans after sunset on a Friday.  Night Angel asked if they knew what a fluffer was Duke blushed and said that he did, and Sally nodded.  Night Angel said “Each of you could act as the fluffer for the other to prepare for sex.  Suction and manual stimulation works for both brands of genitals.  Have you done that before?” 

Both humans nodded.  More to the point, Duke said “We’re ahead of you there.  We have gotten the spark back with your excellent tutelage.  We discussed this yesterday and thought that we were ready for our final exam.” 

Night Angel told them “Go for it guys.  We like to watch, just like that guy in the movies.” 

Duke and Sally performed the three act play that they had researched the previous night.  Act one, fluffing like1999 in a Little Red Corvette.  Act two, reverse cowgirl.  Act three, a temporarily exhausted Duke struggled through missionary with an equally exhausted Sally. 

Towards the end of the show Night Monster and Night Angel were on their feet cheering and clapping. 

Duke thanked them and said “There is no way we can thank you for all that you did for us, but Sally and I were thinking if you could let us get a little rest and come back a couple hours before sunrise, we could, uhh … . 

Night Angel smiled and responded “I like the way you think.  You two were always our favorite humans.”

After a couple of hours before daylight the demons returned.  Partners were traded, new ideas were tried, and all of the parties were pleased.  As was always the case the demons disappeared at daylight leaving two very happy and tired humans to sleep all day Saturday. 

When they did get up, Sally said “What a visit.  Night Demon really touched me.” 

Duke asked “Emotionally?” 

“No, all the way to the uterus, with tongue and dick.” 

Duke smiled “I hear you.  Night Angel’s tongue and lips.  Mmmmmmmmmm.” 

Sally answered the phone and listened for about a minute.  “Good news.  Our demon buddies think that they should check on us once a month.” 

The Buddha in the Key Largo Swimming Pool

Ten potbellied air compressors 
sitting 
in the shallow end. 

They have come from the panhandle. 
They have come to release the pressure valve. 

They have come with Yeti coolers
brimming with Bud Light, 
bags of shrimp, other delights.

And on their radio: songs of pride.

These men are patriots. 

These men are men 
by almost anyone’s definition. 

But they are lesser 
versions
of their leader, the largest, the XL 
potbellied
air compressor. 

He sits in the center 
like Buddha 
in blue-lensed sunglasses, 
his massive arms propped on the ledge, 
his ten-gallon straw hat lolling 
as he proselytizes 
about somethingorother. 

I wade across the pool to find out what. 
I figure
it must be profound 
considering
all the reverence they’re giving him.

Then I hear it: “I sold that 
lot for two-and-a-half.” 

That’s all. 

But punctuated 
with a belch, and a thrust of his arm 
toward 
the Yeti cooler. 

“More,” he tells one 
of his
underlings.

And is served. 

Love Never Dies

In my nightmares
she’s still an idol
standing at the kitchen table
and gnawing at my fibula.

I remember red liquid
dripping down her neck.
She smiled and offered me a kidney.
“Where did you get it?”
An awkward shrug:
her right clavicle was in my hair.
“The neighbor came around.
The rest of him is gone.”

She fed a kiss to me,
a satiated lie.
It was her lover
I tasted in my throat
and then her screams and her despair
as I approached her with a knife.

And when I was alone,
I vomited her eyes up with a sigh.

Distraction Under the Sad Sonoran Sun

Two portable radios 
on two different stations,

one American sports talk radio,
the other Mexican music, sit side 

by side on the outside window sill
as a kind of fucked up compromise

while my Mexican wife and I work 
at grunt chores in the yard, 

pretending we are free  
of financial pressure, 

free of the imminence 
of old age,

free of the hatred in our hearts
and the numbness of our fingers

and have only the sunflowers
and arugula to worry about.

“Judge Santiago Burdon’s poetry is a sophisticated slap in the face. The imagery induces you to clear your throat and shift your weight from one side to the other. Judge doesn’t waste his words in an attempt to make you comfortable. As a poet he delivers defined grit and structured devastation. He speaks in the language of gasoline fumes and stale cigarette smoke. Always honest and fearless, never apologizing. Know that I am a fan.”

S.L. Fleurimont Editor
The Remnant Leaf Journal

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Milked

Horace stood before the shop, hunched over, eyes darting rat-like, the lapels of his coat standing on end in the hope that they’d conceal him. With his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, his fingers jangling the loose change found there, he shuffled his feet and pondered his next move as the sun set behind him.

Dare I…? he thought, a giggle almost escaping him as he cast a glance over the building’s blanked-out windows, reinforced door and black, almost unsettling, décor.

…Well, I’ve come this far…

With a deep, shaky breath, sucking in a lungful of atmospheric sin, Horace stepped forward and knocked on the sheet metal entrance three times and winced at the reverberating sounds that travelled the length and breadth of the alley. An old elegant Victorian Dressmaker’s sign hung above the doorway, sagging from the sandstone from long ago. A landmark of a history long forgotten. Though, the era’s reputation for everyday sadomasochism was not lost on those who knew what hid within this seemingly closed place.

Jesus! 

He risked a peep over his shoulder, ballbag and prick shrivelling, and released his balled fists when he saw there was nobody behind him. 

What does it matter if I’m seen? It’s not like I’m committing a crime! It’s a sex shop, for Christ’s sake, he thought, his heart pounding at the mere thought of what the establishment was. Could it cost me my teaching job? I wouldn’t have thought so… unless a colleague or student spots me. So what? I’m not wrongdoing. No, but a lot of shame would come of it, forcing me to possibly leave my position. Pfft! It’s not …

Bolts clattered and chains rattled. “Who is it, please?” someone asked.

Dude sounds like Vincent Price, Horace thought, sniggering, his pent-up anxiety leaving him but returning in an instant.

“Is that you, Mr Parker? Horace Parker.”

“How…?”

“Do come in,” the man said, pulling the door open, revealing his dapper appearance.

It really is Vincent Price! Horace thought, looking at the tall, moustachioed fella.

“My dear fellow, are you alright?”

Horace shook his head, abandoning his trance-like state, and smiled. He looks like he should be running magic shows or a thespian on stage. “How do you know my name? Has Roger been blabbing? I thought this was a place built on a reputation of utmost discretion.”  

The man tittered, coughed and apologised. “Excuse my amusement, please, Horace, but Roger did no such thing. Let’s just say, I have a way of knowing things. And I know exactly what you need. So please, do come in, Horace, and let’s begin to unease your burden.”

A crack of thunder broke across the cloudless sky as Horace stepped over the shop’s threshold. 

“Just in time,” the proprietor said. 

At his back, Horace heard heavy rain hissing against the asphalt. “Burden?” he asked. 

“Come, there’s no need for coyness here, Horace! I know all about your needs and how they’re manipulating you and causing you much pain and grief. It doesn’t have to be like that. You should be free to live a happy life. To do as you please, no matter how taboo your desires.”

Horace felt his face flush. “I only wanted a bit of porn – something to help occupy me (he lied) – and I was told…”

“You were told all your fantasies would be fulfilled if you came to me, weren’t you?” the man smiled.

“I… how…”

“Shh, Horace. The how’s and why’s don’t matter. The important thing right now is for you to realise that I’m here to help, at a cheap cost which we’ll cover later, and that you put your full trust in me.”

Horace felt hypnotised. “I’m a bad boy,” he confided. “I have awful thoughts and wants, and I’m losing the power to keep them under control.” 

“I know, Horace,” the man said, smiling, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “We’ll sort you out, don’t worry.”

Horace shook his head. “I think it was a mistake coming here,” he said, drinking in his surroundings, eyeing the shelves upon shelves of pornographic DVDs, sex toys, dildos, BDSM gear, ball gags, wigs, crops, whips and everything else he could imagine. “You can’t sell me what I need! I need professional help, goddamn it!” 

“Calm yourself, Horace. Please. There’s no need to get your panties into bunches,” the man laughed. “Now, come over to my desk – I have something for you.”

“Excuse me, Mr DeVile?” A weak voice called from behind. 

When Horace turned to look, he saw a short, balding man standing there. What’s he clutching?

“Oh, I thought you’d departed, Mr Harpis. My apologies.”

“Can I have a word? In private.”

“Of course,” DeVile said. “What is it?”

“Are you sure I can cruise by schools and do as I wish without getting in trouble?” Harpis said, his voice low, but Horace could hear all the same. “I’ve been good for so long now that I don’t want to get in trouble for acting on my fantasies. You did say it would be okay!”

DeVile laughed. “Go. Go indulge. Your actions will not land you in hot water. I promise. Just, don’t forget my payment, there’s a good man.”

When the little guy shuffled off, pushing his glasses back up his nose, Horace turned to DeVile. “That man’s a paedo—”

DeVile held his hands up. “That he may be. But and I guarantee you this, I’ve sold him a package that will allow him to release his demons safely. No harm will come of anyone. Just like I’ve sold packages to those with necrophilia, rape, murder and a whole host of other sexual tendencies.”

Briefly, Horace’s mind snapped to his own family, his baby son giggling in his swing chair, as his wife stared vacantly out the window, with bleary eyes, blankly waving the oldest off to school. She was so absent these days, especially to him, he didn’t understand this is the life she wanted, not me… then he thought of the only time she seemed alive now, with the child latched on to her big darkened nipples. His cock stirred again, pushing against his jeans, like a trapped animal, “and that’s what you plan to do for me?”

DeVile smiled. “Of course. It is, after all, why you came here?”

Horace wanted to back off. This can’t be right. What’s going on here?

“Come closer, Horace.”

When DeVile stooped to retrieve something, Horace turned to run but was stopped when he heard a thud. 

“This… is your package, Horace.”

Horace turned, his eyes immediately drawing to the black, medium-sized box with a red bow wrapped around it on top of the man’s counter. “Take it with you. You won’t be disappointed,” DeVile said, pushing the parcel towards Horace. “I offer a 30 day no satisfaction policy. So, if you’re not happy, just bring it back. No fee required.”

“And if I do like it?”

DeVile smiled. “If you do, then I’ll want paying. A little something in return for relieving you of such a terrible burden…”

***

Leaving the seedy alley, another snap cracked through the darkening clouds, bringing with it an onslaught of spider-web-like lightning as backdrop to the torrential rain, lashing mercilessly at the street. He made it back to the Volvo and placed his box on the passenger seat. How am I going to get what I need from the contents of this box? Like everything in life, this will be another disappointment… he was almost sure of it. I’ve been a fool to come here. What a dirty, filthy perv! No woman wants this kind of ‘bad boy’. What choice did he have but to try this?

The rain pounded at the windows, rattling the metal roof; he was caught in static contemplation. As the pelting slowed, he checked his phone — the only messages were one from his wife reminding him to pick up milk and oatmeal and a notification that his favourite ‘Only Fans’ performer was doing a special show soon, for all her ‘special babies’. It just wasn’t enough… not anymore, if it ever was.

The orange streetlight flickered overhead; a failing engine stuttering to start before it submitted to its failure. He clicked through the camera roll into videos. Biting his lower lip, Horace thumbed up until he saw what he wanted. He drew down his zipper and freed his prick into the near-open air of the family car. He pressed play: The camera view is from the dresser, adjacent to their sensible double divan. Addy is asleep, her heavy breasts free of her open nighty, a damp puddle of milk staining the sheet. Horace naked before her; she looks like an Angel. He peels back the light damask printed sheet revealing the delicious slopes of her body. Kneeling before her, he opens his mouth wide and takes in her breast. Miraculously she barely stirs, only grunts in her sleep. As he watches the replay, Horace fondles and squeezes his balls. His breathing becoming ragged as the memory of the sweet watery fluid coating his tongue, filling his mouth pours through his cerebellum. He pulls his warm palm up, gripping his shaft and pumps, furiously milking himself… if she knew how he wanted her, if anyone knew… he was a very bad boy indeed. He imagined her talking to him, cooing over his head like she did that damned baby… “fuck, yes mummy,” he whispered, deep and low as he pumped his fist up and down faster. Slick with pre-cum, he watches himself sucking and wanking in his secret video, his arse clenched and bicep rising and falling. In the car, he stifled his orgasm, turning and biting into his own shoulder, shooting his thick creamy load into his hand.

Flicking his eyes open, Horace jumped back, seeing the long face of DeVile grinning sinister back at him through the rain, a wavering shimmer or red outlining his lanky form, what the fuck… Squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again, DeVile was gone. “You’re losing it, man, get a grip! Time to get going.” With nothing to wipe it on, he sucked down the thick white salty spunk and tucked his prick back into his trousers. Why couldn’t my milk taste as good as hers… With that, he pulled on his belt and started up the car, eager to get home and unwrap his package.

***

It took him two weeks to work up the courage and have the solitude to actually open the mysterious black box. How could he even know what I want? How can what I want be inside this box? I don’t even know what I want… maybe the impossible. Unfastening the ribbon, he lifted the deep black lid. Inside, a puff of red dust rose up and pummelled itself into his eyeballs. Horace fell back off the bed where he had been perched, thumping his head off the corner of the dresser.

Pulling himself up to sit, Horace rubbed the back of his head, coming away with a wet smear of crimson across his hand. Fuck. He felt dizzy, almost separate from his body; pain swelled at the back of his skull, thumping as thunder boomed within his temple. He used the bed to pull himself up and peer into the box. Using his bloodied hand, he removed a dark crystal skull. It was heavy and carved with intricate mystical symbols and ruins— none of which he was familiar. He peered into the sockets and became mesmerised; inky galactic swirls began to move within this peculiar artefact, hypnotic. The lower jaw dropped open, and a blinding white light emitted from the gaping maw and its cavernous sockets – shooting straight into his eyeballs. His soul burned as if being torn from his body. Within the light, DeVile’s sinister face materialised, eyebrows arched in sadistic points over black eyes… “The exchange shall be done.” His sardonic laugh boomed around the room as if from a megaphone.

At that, the pain scorched through his entire body, an erupting of magma ran through his core as he collapsed and seized, emptying his bladder and bowels all over the plush cream carpet.

***

Addy was crying, her bleary eyes now pouring. He gazed at her confused, then he saw the body… his body being strapped down and placed upon a stretcher by three men – he recognised one of them, Mr Harpis, what’s that paedo doing in my house?! He thought. A low deep voice came from the doorway. “I’m so sorry for your loss Mrs Parker. If you just sign here, we’ll take care of everything.”

DeVile?! His eyes landed on Horace’s, “I can hold him if you like, while you sign and say goodbye.”

Goodbye?! What is he talking about, the creepy, lanky bastard. It was then Horace looked down. He could barely control his head as DeVile’s arms came into contact with his body. He watched Addy crying, stroking his face as he lay drooling on the stretcher.

“The exchange is complete, Horace. Don’t worry about the infant on the stretcher. I know just the client that package will be perfect for.”

***

As he gazed up, sucking insatiably on his wife’s engorged milky tit… he finally felt complete. He felt her nipple elongate as he sucked, it nestled tight against his soft pallet as the warm milky goodness squirted into his throat, he was so excited his whole body felt it may explode, biting down – a reflex, well, maybe it was the first time, now he liked it. She squirted harder when his gums clammed shut, and he liked the way she jumped. She squealed and patted his rump, “Ouch! Naughty boy!”

She was right, he really was… her naughty boy.