i wish i could write
a poem about the way
you looked at me
across the table that night,
but i literally cannot
find a way to.
i cant decide
if its because
the moment was so
entrancing that its
inexplicable in words,
or because nothing about it
was really poetic at all.
-eyes to lower, dropping to gaze only at the floor
-ears to detect small warning changes in voice inflection
-shoulders to slump, fall and curl forward away from ears
-hands to tremble while folded in prayer deep into the night
-chest to close tightly, drawing in only small gasps of air
-heart to race uncontrollably with fear and anticipation
-stomach to swell, rumble, churn and spew acid
-legs to shake violently yet forget how to run
-feet to remain still, frozen, planted in shame.
It is time to unlearn these lessons.
–after Candide
There is a concatenation of events in the best of all possible worlds.
Had we not been stopped short by the pandemic,
we would not be playing the violin where Daniel and Rebecca Boone were laid to rest,
we would not be deep cleaning the Giza pyramids,
we would not have left the ghost light burning all night on Broadway,
we would not be taking lessons from The Rest of the World,
we would not be turning our front yards into playgrounds,
we would not be playing board games in the garage wearing gloves,
and we would not be here to eat fresh radishes grown by our son.
This morning, I hastily grabbed my hardback,
1973 edition of Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary,
with the binding on its spine worn off;
and lost my grip, juggling it in my hands,
when several folded sheets of paper slipped loose
from the X’s. How had I missed these?
Six sheets stapled together, with the heading:
Books to Read Before College,
listed in alphabetical order, by author.
My maiden name is handwritten in ink
on the upper righthand corner of the first sheet.
Little stars appear beside titles of books
I may have wanted to read or already had.
Mutiny on the Bounty
The Catcher in the Rye
The sheets are yellowed; the crease is starting
to tear. Each page has what looks like
a coffee stain spilled on the folded packet;
twin blotches, in the shape of breasts,
that have faded and blurred the ink.
Reading down the list today, I remember
devouring those classic novels as fast
as I could wield my library card; too fast,
really, to grasp their deeper meaning.
But, at eighteen, I already knew it all.
Of Human Bondage
Dr. Zhivago
All that preparation, that promise.
I wish I could beg that headstrong, naive girl
to slow down, to finish college, wait to get married.
But, she wouldn’t have listened. Instead, her education
turned visceral. I remember her screaming
at the drunk husband who didn’t seem to care,
that she was leaving; another sad story for the classics.
Her life had become the novel
she wished she’d never read.
i feel an
unstoppable,
unending,
gut-wrenching,
hair-losing
sadness
that i can’t articulate.
i’m not missing anything
but
how do you describe
empty
except as the
absence
of something else?
She says my name.
She says my name to get my attention.
She says my name at the end of a sentence to punctuate her argument.
She says my name; I’m a puppy; I wag my tail.
She says my name in Spanish.
She says, my name, no yells it when it is time to come home at dark.
She says the fake name I gave her.
She says my name but I hate when she says it.
She says my name on repeat.
She says a shortened version of my name.
She says my name sounds pretty white.
She says my name and wants to know if I have time to take a brief survey.
She says my name in a whisper.
She doesn’t say my name.
She doesn’t know my name.
She says my name when my order is ready.
She says my name like a simple question that is easy to answer.
She says my scientific name.
She says the only nickname that ever stuck.
She says my name because I have no power here.
She says my name so it’s not forgotten.
She shouts my name in the streets.
She says my name telepathically: hot feet, a hand in my leg hair, pain in my lower back.
She says her name because she’s tired of saying mine.
I know, I should trim the creek bed weeds
and pull them also from the garden beds,
then as well along the path’s edge,
between stepping stones. Most anywhere
a weed could grow, it seems I have it
here, verdant and defiant, prolific in
its constancy. As many times
I pluck, again it rustles up above
the earth, as to remind me I must
reconsider worth and work.
Much better to just to dip
my toes, listen, read,
though I should trim
the creek bed weeds,
I’d rather root into this poetry.
Men in Black
Black faces
emerge
streaked with sweat
nostrils flared
sucking in fresh air…
The morning light
opens their eyes
white teeth shine
with home going smiles
meant for another day.
Warm water
washes away
the aching night…
clean faces
emerge…
But, inside
in the deep hollows
of their breath
the wages of their labor
grows dark.
It is a life
no one appreciates
but everyone expects.
Tony Sexton
after White Zombie
It’s right here baby right here on the planet
of pretty kills the planet of petty shrill talk
from the cynical boob tube rube-trapping
Bible-humping motherfuckers impregnating
the American flag with acid and high cholesterol
and transparent Aryan wet dreams baby
right here where you stand it’s like the hand
of god come down with a smack it’s like
a seaside resort of tear-gas currents and
cyanide daiquiris this is the planet of the boomers
hippies yippies yuppies Gen-X puppies
and millennial wide-eyed babes baby
the mirror-fuckers the screen suckers the digital
tunnel-vision look-the-other-way motherfuckers
like all of us we waited just long enough to see
everything turn so goddamn white our curries
taste like mashed potatoes we waited for
a universal uniform of beige overalls before
celebrating the beauty of chosen wardrobes
it’s all here now the bodies in the streets
that bone-spur fully-formed sentient id hiding
in his bunker the mothers crying baby
the children crying baby the bloodied
nightsticks baby the motherfucking doctored
footage baby the echo chambers crashing
into one another baby this is our psychoholic slag
the sludge we have to dredge through because
me and you and mommy and daddy and
mamaw and papaw and uncle and aunt
and on and on and on and on chose chains
over communion chose invisible walls over
block parties chose silent time bombs over
a rainbow chorus of motherfucking fireworks
let’s talk baby let’s dance baby let’s dance until
the sun breaks in and we can help clean up
It’s always there behind me,
Watching me,
I ignore its constant whispers about what I should do,
About how I should act,
I Live in the here and now I tell myself,
and I continue with my day,
But i’m followed,
The past never leaves,
Everyday it’s whispers become louder and louder,
Until the day I listen to what it has to say,
And the day I regret what I’ve just done
