Carmen 46

When I finally marshaled sufficient courage to grasp the tail of the lioness,
I reached out to touch emptiness. Behind me: the rustling grass.

A Feast

They sit on metal benches. The waves striking the craft sway bodies and rifles. The spray of saltwater occasionally stings an unguarded eye or skinned knuckle. One man gazes intently at what can only be a palm-sized portrait of a lover: the red filter fastened over his flashlight’s lens makes his anguish safe and private. Other men write letters to persons unknown; when finished the papers are folded and placed into packets secreted within an interior jacket pocket. A few play cards-the game seems to be understood by the gamblers, but is utterly incomprehensible to an observer- aided again by reddened light; they pass a flask around the circle of their merry band, their cheeks warm although spring is new in the world.

A man longs for the woodlots of his boyhood- soft whistling emerges, imitating the sparrow, the robin, the thrush: in fact, nearly all the humble birds of his native land. Somewhere a fish of interminable size jumps; the splash is scarcely heard. A seabird flies above and makes its call and suddenly on this night of a crescent moon a sound pierces through the air. A man begins whetting his bayonet. The hone and steel are louder than can be believed. SCREECH, SCREECH, SCREECH: he continues to sharpen the pyramidal edges, honoring the last living wonder of the ancient world.

Quickly the other men cease their activities: the woman evaporates into a waterproof case, letters are signed, the cards are packed away, the only bird nearby is a gull. Even the man muttering repetitive prayers to his God tracked with rosary beads is shaken by this sudden silence. What remains? The sharpness of a bayonet. The anticipation of the surf. The dawn. 

Solipsism

This is not literature, it is abandonment.

A man can live long enough to have nothing left,

to exhaust generosity, to find himself alone in the world.

In a few months the lease on my apartment will expire

and I will have nowhere to go.

I have no right to ask favors of anyone, and so I will not.

I have only survived this long by taking advantage of the kindness of women,

but they can’t care about someone who doesn’t care about himself.

I suppose it will be sometime in the month of June, then.

Twenty six years old.

It seems like such a waste.

Sour

I never knock on doors.

I started walking around my town, a few weeks past;

I had become very lonely.

Suddenly the automobile of the woman that I love

became repetitively parked in front of a house

that I knew to be populated with assholes.

Over time, the other cars left and did not return, save hers.

So I started walking in the early hours of the morning

in order to be more healthy,

and time after time, random patterns took me to that street.

She swore to me that nothing was going on.

She drives a car and I walk on my feet,

and still every time I make my feet walk to the house, her car is there.

So this is what you want out of life?

Some smarmy piece of shit who doesn’t see his own children?

Someone who will buy you chemicals enough to bury your conscience?

You are fucking welcome.

Immune

I notice that I rarely despise her

For her personality or actions:

It is her contrived image that I hate.

Why should she mingle with those simpletons?

She laughs when a joke is not humorous,

Takes free drugs ‘til conversation interests,

Then is confused when I am furious.

She desires the peasants’ adoration

And wonders why my love is not the same.

Why should I pretend inferiority?

They are beneath her, so they grovel. Shall I?

When I murder her lovers one by one

The police will never find a pattern.

She cannot betray me – she thinks that they are dead.

Atropa

The cat was white with a beige blaze between the eyes.

I wanted to name her “Lesbia” but the name was refused

for vague reasons. Instead I called her Atropis - thread cutter.

My lover left me and I forgot the face of my pet;

two years later her claws still scar my palms.

She is lost to the wild but songbirds know her name.

Carmen 45

This one, she eats when she is not hungry.

She finds her dinner partners in public,

Entrances with charms and musical skill,

Then sits coyly at their kitchen tables.

Though the fare is meager, she devours it.

Observe, Lesbia. Count differences.

Remember your predecessors.

You Fell Ill Twenty Seven Years Ago

The transmigration of souls brings solace

On these bleak days. The sky began weeping

Before the moment of his death. Rumbling

Discontent spreads, the walls begin to shake.

Now I see my labyrinthine brother,

He smiles at my footsteps; still he is blind.

Once he saw all things that had ever been

In a phase of the moon, and afterward

He could no longer find a woman there.

Jorge, was it a mercy that you died

Before my birth? Were you waiting for me?

Is it peculiar that we share so much,

Or am I to find answers in layers,

Like the hexagons of a library

Where I have spent my life reading one book?

Luis, your work is composed of brilliance:

Clever indirection of common thought,

Solemn touching of myth upon a page;

The manner in which words can tessellate

And change meanings in earlier stories-

Did you predict or prefigure my life?

Borges, my favorite film critic died today-

But always your ghost haunts, and no others.

Is it black magic or an absolute truth

That your face will greet mine in silver mirrors?

A Ruin

Butterfly, with this stone I grind you down

Like the Balisong I lost in a storm

While I wandered making peace with thunder.

I am sorry to fold you so tightly,

To visit my agony on your wings,

But the land is poisoned- it will choke you.

Should I allow eggs to be laid, knowing

That your progeny will be hideous?

At time’s end, monsters rear their many heads

But you are pure, lovely: I will free you from pain. 

Are You Fair?

I whisper to you that I leave your side

Because nature has called me in the night,

Untangle my toes from yours, kiss your hand,

Wince as the carpet turns to cheap-laid tile,

Become more comfortable, wash my hands, and return

But you are gone. I become quite frantic

Until the fog is shaken from my mind.

Now I recall the place you have chosen:

The mountains you hope will be your mother,

A town of strangers, not indiscretions-

But no, this has not happened. You were here

When the sun was setting, went for a drink,

And then… Well I do not know what happened.

You sleep alone, or you are comforted-

Let me know which, when the sun rises on your eyes.

Cowards

I.

Before a couple hours back, I never got kicked out of a place

without doing something first. Oh sweet lord but it happened

today though and you should have seen it.

Man I tell you I was as drunk as most people have ever been.

I was positively blind, stumbling around town

without a drink of water or a dollar from 6 p.m. to 2 a.m.

II.

So I’m walking down the sidewalk on the main road

and the way spring gets frigid in the early morning is sobering me up.

Out of nowhere I hear my girl’s song playin’ real loud out of this white house

with a bunch of cars all in the yard (I say she’s my girl but she isn’t any more)

so I walk on up and knock on the door,

and no one answers: but they’re awake and it’s the South,

and I’ve often been inside, years ago in happier seasons

(and talked at great length about music on the patio too)

so I walk on in, grab the one clean glass out of the cupboard to the left of the sink,

pour myself a cool drink of water and wet my tongue.

She’s here, wearing a new dress (if she wants compliments,

she wears a dress for strangers and enjoys their bankrupt praise)

but I don’t talk to anyone, I just look down at the tiles on the kitchen floor.

I notice people are staring at me a little but it ain’t like I’m stealing

something. I finish the glass I poured, then get myself

some more water from the tap and drink it down,

then more, then another glassful,  and then this girl I don’t know walks up

like she knows who I am- she tells me I’m not welcome.

I say, “Hold up a minute ma’am, now maybe you don’t know my name

and I understand that, but I swear I’m just getting a drink of water

and when my thirst is gone I’ll be hitting the road.”

She says that won't fly and I have to get gone,

then this bastard walks up and says hello.

Well it is his house, I know, but he stole my love a year ago

and spirited her off to several mediocre concerts,

so I can seize some city-provided water today.

I always smile when I see him, so I smile and tilt my chin at him.

“Hey boyo, how nice to see you on this fine evening.”

He looks quite uncomfortable and shifts in his jeans,

“You know you can’t be here, man,” he says, “you weren’t invited.”

I chuckle in an exaggerated way, holding my stomach with my left hand.

“Well do you know my address? Might have gotten lost in the mail.

And did you use the right stamps? They won’t send it

if you don’t use the right stamps. My dad works for the post office, you see,

so I guess I’d say I know all about that kind of thing.

How many days ago did you invite folks over?

Like I was telling your gal over there (she’s kissing on another girl now, right on)

I was just getting some water from the tap, I’ve been walkin’ miles and miles

and they don’t have fountains set up around much of this city.”

To his credit, he ignores what I say though it is both plausible and true.

He says to me, “Why are you here? This is my house, you can’t be here.”

Three dozen people dance in the living room and no one else is in the kitchen.

I reply-

"Man I tell you I walked ten miles today without a drop to drink,

and this time of night I can’t just knock on a person’s door who I don’t know

‘cause they’re liable to shoot me two times with a pump twelve gauge,

but if you don’t want me inside I know that’s cool man.

Let me get a drink of water though, I’m dying here.

You don’t have to like me as a person but come on, give a man a drink?

Can’t refuse me that, that’s inhumane, that is!"

He leans in close to me, puts his hand on my arm, and says

“I’ll get you a cup to go, but you need to go outside soon, okay?”

I shrug my shoulders and push his hand off me, say to him- "Keep your hands off."

I slightly incline my head, pull my leather jacket on, and walk out the door.

There are two brick columns in front of the house connected by a fence.

The column I lean against is cracked but not broken.

There’s a tire iron as long as my forearm on top of the pillar.

I take my jacket off and cover it.

I guess the gal that lives there got bored with the girl she was kissing,

because she comes out of the door and starts trying to eject me from the open air.

I still don’t know her name so I don’t pay much attention. 

He comes outside and hands me a fast food cup full to the damn top with water,

tells the girl to go on in. I take a sip and smirk at him. He leans on the other column.

He asks when I’ll be going, now that I’ve got water.  I throw the act on again. I say-

"Hell man I don’t really know, had nothing to drink for hours and hours

and you’re a country boy like me, you know I can’t just drink six glasses of water

then hike my happy ass for five miles without puking my guts out ‘til the cops come."

I think about the sound of teeth hitting rain-soaked moss.

He talks for a certain amount of time. I ignore him. My love comes outside

and looks angry upon discovering me there. I never go where I don’t want to be seen

but I’m learning that others don’t always follow this rule, especially faithless women.

She gets a cigarette lighter from her automobile and goes back inside.

He asks when I’ll be going and I let all my breath out then say-

“Have I offended you? Have I done anything wrong?

Have I said a coarse or cruel phrase to your friends tonight,

or pushed someone’s head against a wall?

Have I threatened anyone, or cheated at cards?”

I know he hates me, but he looks embarrassed somehow.

I keep staring at his nasal septum and thinking of the way

that cartilage can shatter like a daydream.

I pull my jacket on slowly, without breaking the spell.

I grab the lapels and shake the leather forward, tight against my back.

I say to him, “You know they hate me and not you, only because they know

what I have done and not what you have done.

You’re no different from me but you’re a lot fucking dumber

and that’s the reason why she’s here today.”

He looks like he will be brave when his balls drop down

and he finally can take a woman or grow a beard properly.

I pick up the tire iron and throw it to the ground, right at his feet

and man you should have seen that slimy motherfucker’s face.

Red is My Favorite Color

Spirals. Anger. Tight arabesques. Red wasps

On bright March mornings are identical

‘Til suddenly they are near to your eyes

And they bristle full-plated in armor

And threaten with a spear that’s pierced before.

Suffering is not distinguished by words

That are unique; the loss of dearest friends

When explained aloud often masquerades

In the language of ruined love, or else

The tears of a child when their pet departs

But I believe we were speaking of wasps-

Unsavory even when they are at their best.

Why is it so easy to evoke them?

Why should they signify raw shock and pain

When they die every year and I am immortal?

Katarina

God damn it, the moment this sexy girl drinking margaritas

at a table by herself at the Mexican joint (black skirt long legs

silver earrings) turns to me after an hour of furtive glances

and says “can I ask you a question?” and I reply “is it a hard question?”

and she laughs and asks for my name in order to confirm that I am the man

who sometimes brings a book and bitterness to the bar that employs her,

she pays Consuela and walks through a glass door:

now I remember the doctor bringing me screaming into the world.