12.31.2017

Polliwog Sonnet

I live a desperate
rifle shot from the foot
of a mountain.
No one's ever tried.
It's another rich assumption--
a posthumous treatise
on the merit of an uppercut.

Over six years here
and this new noise has arrived:
a creaking back-and-forth
like the rigging on a frigate.
I know it's only copper
of the heat pipes rubbing wood
but I'm grateful that it's waited.
For this I would have paid extra.

You think that you're the only one
who's asked these arms for waking?
Sirens in their songs
don't deviate from form.
Regardless of the calendar
they start to taste the same.

In dreams they all forgive me.
We sleep, and nothing more.

12.30.2017

Cuffing Season

Though the cold spell's
frozen birds to power lines outside
Hector feels the sun
on his shoulders and his neck
as he gently flips eggs
on a morning.
The rest of him
is chilled
by the shade
in his apartment
but where the rays land
he's warm.

There's got to be a word
for this, he thinks.
There probably is
in Spanish
though his grandmother's
long dead.

From the bedroom
behind him
Hector hears
the tossing and straightening
of sheets.

He scoops the better eggs
onto a plate
for Rose of No Man's Land
or the most convincing facsimile.
In his dreams
they all forgive him.

You're either here
or you're wrong.


Currently reading:
"Jubilat" (Volume 31).

12.25.2017

So Much for the Deposit

I'm rinsing
a lightly used muffin tin
when it dawns on me:
I don't miss
the newly absent
cabinet door
that for six years
hung next to the oven.
It had been rigged
twice before
once by the tenant prior
but the last two screws
I drove through its flimsy panels
while late for medication
on Christmas Eve
split the remainder
sealing its dumpster destination.
Unfastening it from the hinges
I straightened the pots
and pans inside to make them
more presentable
to any potential guests.
At peace with this latest state
I continue to wash the dishes.
What's a cabinet
but a shelf with a door?

Since I don't have television
I can better hear the sounds:
brick settling;
rusty water gurgling
through inefficient baseboard;
the aloes on the windowsill
slurping down their pints.
No one in Bridgeton
knows why I'm in Bridgeton
least of all myself.

Out of boredom
I read my prescription's description.
It claims to contain a chemical
that suppresses the portion
of the brain that triggers coughing.
What other parts
can scientists pinpoint
and subdue?

A Yuletide airplane
glistens through my dusty window
and I wonder when
the overdue meteor
will arrive to deliver mankind.
Hallelujah.

Don't let the textbooks
and strategists fool you:
The best place to be
is backed into a corner.


Currently reading:
"Anthem" by Ayn Rand.

12.23.2017

Racing Improves the Breed

The cough syrup
goes down much smoother now
than it did as a kid.
You remember how your mother
always said a Spanish prayer
calling upon the names
of Fathers, Sons, and Ghosts
as you took your shot
obediently, unaware
of what would later haunt you.

Your fever dream delirium
brings news of another overdose
a Jezebel from long ago
whose death was overdue.
In the incubation of your contagion
you've been quarantined for days
lost in an algorithm
like a whore who lies about sailing
to anchor more free drinks.

The infection's moved to inner ears.
You feel it creeping from your throat.
While the hacking rasp is painful
you've enjoyed the lack of speech.

A woman you've never known
delivers soup and festive cookies.
Another whose anatomy
you could draw left-handed
from memory begs to pay a visit.
A third you should have married
thirteen lucky years ago
ends her day with invitation
to her couch, and tree, and more of that soup
but you decline for her sober sake
since the season of giving
doesn't preach of influenza.
It's mercy in old age;
attempted redemption.
Self-imposed solitude
brings in the Yuletide
with your greatest fear.

You think back to that prayer's preamble:
"Holy Father, Good Father..."
its Latin praise trailing off
and wonder if those words would still work.
Your mother never caught your ailment
though that's since
she wasn't afraid
back then.

12.16.2017

Kill It in the Crib

Common to the ones
who came closest
is that coy look
cast along the right shoulder
before descending
the streetbound stairwell
with hopes of learning each step.

Burned into what's burning
the ancient lumber creaks.
It's laughter on the back porch;
a tire swing of the mind.

12.14.2017

Careful, Icarus

Counter-rotated vertebrae
scream Mandarin obscenities
through a spine that's prone
to weakening
for imposters on the body.
It's frontier justice
in the sanctum sanctorum--
an aggressor from within
that cares not for confessions.

That concubine on the gurney
tasted like home
for a moment
as the defrocked sodomist
made apologetic gestures
to atone for party fouls.

Daggers drawn from backs
slit a few throats in turn.
Is that a sunrise or a sunset?
The photo fails to suggest.
Plus-one invitations
mean ample wine is catalyzed.

Crafters of killing-steel
put blood gutters in blades
through mercy.
Don't be taken
by subsequent sleepyheads:
Your enemy's enemies
are your enemies
as well.

A man with a bigger head once said
that matter can neither
be created nor destroyed;
Things don't simply
disappear
or do they?


Currently reading:
"Poetry", May 2017.

12.08.2017

Seeking Conquistadors

I can't explain to you
why I'm suddenly in the market
for antique Spanish swords
from our war against Iberians
in Teddy Roosevelt's Caribbean
but here I am
hoping that geographic cures
will work--
A call to arms
that only the wounded
would heed.

It hurts to be so sober
on a Friday, half past eight
scouring Bannerman catalogues 110 years old
for militaria that one can no longer purchase
though if your love has left you
then perhaps you can relate.

A product description
catches my eye:
"SPANISH INFANTRY OFFICER'S SWORD,
with blade and scabbard broken in two.
Probably done so as not to surrender
complete sword.
Blade is Marked...
Captured in Cuba.
Price $6.00."

Instantly I want it
but the time machine required
is almost as improbable
as Jackie coming back.

We Spaniards are so stubborn
even in defeat
and some of us still breathing
never came back from battle.


Currently reading:
"The Rough Riders" by Theodore Roosevelt.