Posts for June 7, 2016 (page 2)

in six months, you’ll return, smirking,
sheepish, as if there’d been some mistake,
as if the judge misread
the depth of your white,
but it’s okay, you’ll say, you forgive him,
benevolent, kindly,
large watch on your wrist, the one
your father gave you, waterproof,
at your second swim meet
you learned that gifts comes easy,
that you are right, sentence-proof,
impervious to 200 meters,
that men who look like you will bend
facts to match your sheepish smirk,
that you didn’t, not really, rape that girl,
or she wanted it
or she didn’t say no
or you wanted it
(you wanted it)
the world distorting to fit your frame
the world your funhouse mirror,
at every turn, your pallor
a black hole that ensnares us all,

and when you go to jail
it’ll be like that summer
in Montauk, when you kissed cousins,
smoked cigarettes for the first time,
stole from pop’s liquor cabinet,
porn mags buried by the fire pit,
your first deodorant—such memories,
precious, yours, everything yours—
and some girl drowned in a lake,
falling from the canoe,
expensive whisky swirling in your palm,
the crooning of loons,
laid out on pine needled floors
under the white moon,
(your victim picked pine needles
from her hair)

you might even meet a black person,
a true criminal, the kind from the news
and you’ll come back bad—
snapping your fingers,
wearing leather with straps,
always singing a tune,
things will never get so bad
you’ll need to stop singing,
though you might lose your appetite
for pizza bagels.

when your father told you,
held you, baby, in his arms,
you can do anything
with your life
he meant
you can do anything
with her life
because you’re a good kid,
because stories, once told, might
never be untold, because
the language spoken by cupboards
you slammed as a teen
means the world bows to you

in six months we’ll forget about you,
a vague, awkward, nice guy, who slipped up,
like when you took the fiver
from grandma’s purse and she tsk’ed
and slipped you a caramel
because boys will be boys:
roughhousing, horseplay, noogies,
body odor, white socks,
backflips off the pier,
bong rips at noon,
and raping unconscious girls
behind dumpsters

safe travels, Brock—
the world awaits you,
open-armed.

          It does not bother me to say this isn’t love,
          because if you don’t want to talk about it,
          then it isn’t love.  (Adam Duritz, Anna Begins)  

My heart doesn’t work right.
Forget grammar,
let’s not be trite,
let’s not stammer,  

forget grammar,
I’m talking about love.
Let’s not stammer,
or discuss details of could’ve,  

I’m talking about love,
though all you do is argue,
or discuss details of could’ve,
not about a multitude of two.  

Though all you do is argue,
let’s not be trite,
not about a multitude of two,
my heart doesn’t work. (Write!)

Come find me

Along the breaded shores

Of the chocolate seas

Whisper to me

Of taxable revenue

As per code 37723

Allow me to introduce

Myself

Over and over again

Come find me

And come rescue me

From each uncertain end

I watch you through

My narrowed eyes

Astigmatized, ablur

To read your words

And draw from them

A self you never were

How fondly fingers fondle

Shadow spectres void of space

There is no you

That will ever do

Or take your shadow’s place

Fluctuation
A ripple, perpetual
Decline, eternally

It’s the Saturday after Christmas
and the substitute organist is playing carols.
We turn to the entrance of the church.
“There seem to be more baptisms lately,”

says my spouse, who later whispers “well done”
when Father Prabell’s homily segues from generation gaps
disrupting holiday gatherings to the Holy Family
not understanding that Jesus was on a mission.

After the family gathers at the baptismal font,
after the water sprinkling, oil pouring, and candle lighting,
after the change into a white baptismal gown,
Father Prabell presents the newest member to the congregation.

He speaks directly to baby Graham John,
explaining the rites. He carries him
down the center aisle, up one side aisle,

over to the left transept, and crosses in front of the altar
to show Graham John the baby Jesus lying in a crèche.
The child is asleep when the priest

returns him to his father.
As we leave the cathedral, 
we long to touch the newborn’s hands.

 Just in case they boast a monster
like Barbie, a Polly Pocket, blue lego, hardened ball of playdough
or a ghastly spider on retreat from the garage,
one at a time, the boot turns upside down
then rests on the floor  

One row at a time, strong, rough fingers
pull thick black laces taut
and tie them at the high top of each filthy, steel-toed shoe
After getting up before dawn for 25 years of loyal service,
he could do this in his sleep  

A quick peck on the forehead,
keys, wallet, doubled Walmart bags with lunch,
he slips around the kitchen corner and out the door
His last known presence before arrival of 4pm’s welding grime—
The faithful sound of easy-going black work boots on the concrete drive  

My eyes sting with sentiment, see blurred objects all around
Throat muscles tighten, clamp vocal chords
Swallowing the mass of emotion is futile
as a result of the scene’s recognition and power—
this space connects worthless black soot and brilliant worth  

His character, integrity, and work ethic rules
the monotony, the repetition of roughly 6,000 work days
This mighty reign speaks the language of constant love and devotion
With each safety check for hidden objects, tug at dirty boot laces, and a day’s completion, holiness abides.

Sloping down the hill
in Alfama she clicks the cobbles
with new flats

unmarred by the old streets.
Purse strap clutched, her legs
stretch the pencil skirt beneath
the sleeveless tank.

The slope of her shoulders,
strength of her collarbones,
bring purpose to cool morning.

Too early for sunglasses,
fresh plucked eyebrows
serve to frame her face.

Arch, tight, precise-
they lift as her bracelets
hail a taxi.

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 ^ (    ) !
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 T      bo    y      
    -Firs                jus
just           if  I
,. .       #ha ha hash 
* “ `tis bet
i I  iiiii
–––––  –– —-–— — –— –– –––  – – -—  —
                    it is best that i never begin
     lest I define

myself