Once upon a Maria (w.t.)
after West Side Story
The streets
are rubber,
the garages
soft,
the roofs
are spongy.
They are three stages
for dancing. The pit
orchestra bellows.
Three sets rumbling with snaps, flourishes,
twirls––scuff marks
show missteps and re-steps
and collapsing stars. Dissolving
dance shoes smacking stages dub over mouths
kissing hands
while the riffraff rage
disturbed rumbas.
Rehearsal:
the heel scrapings
on the ground,
circular from revolutions
revolving around Romeo
and Juliet, rebel
against the roar of rude tap shoes lunging across rooftops,
revealing male muscle.
The maidens manage to mambo
but aren’t allowed to mangle. All but Maria.
Maria, who takes
up arms. Maria
with magic in rhyme.
Maria who keeps
the mourning star from morning.
Friday, January 31, 2014
King of the Rats
King of the Rats
Was it the filthiest?
The first to spread
the plague? Or maybe the best
at being trapped, setting precedence
for future rats. I like to think the King
of the Rats was the one
that lead comrades onto the cruise
ship, that boat that was abandoned (on account
of all the rats)
The King of the Rats didn’t partake
in the ensuing orgy, the buffet, Caligula
jerking somewhere in his grave. The King
waited, got hungry before the other
rats did. The King used babies as bait
& dessert afterwards.
When the cruise washed ashore
on an uninhabited island, the King walked,
surveyed his domain.
Died in a week from starvation
on a throne made of the glowing
incisions of interruption.
Was it the filthiest?
The first to spread
the plague? Or maybe the best
at being trapped, setting precedence
for future rats. I like to think the King
of the Rats was the one
that lead comrades onto the cruise
ship, that boat that was abandoned (on account
of all the rats)
The King of the Rats didn’t partake
in the ensuing orgy, the buffet, Caligula
jerking somewhere in his grave. The King
waited, got hungry before the other
rats did. The King used babies as bait
& dessert afterwards.
When the cruise washed ashore
on an uninhabited island, the King walked,
surveyed his domain.
Died in a week from starvation
on a throne made of the glowing
incisions of interruption.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Superstar
Superstar
The Jesus in my head, lazy-
eyed soprano, stars
in the eponymous musical
alongside the black Judas, shifty-
eyed, gruff rockstar.
The Jesus in my head, sleeping
with washed feet, doesn’t bleed
when his crown descends. Night falls
on my crucified singer like a tree
that couldn’t bear the weight
of Judas. In my head, awake
with impure thoughts of the deceiver,
the noose hugged his throat when cocks
crowed. My suicidal Judas like a bush
on fire with a message only for me.
The Jesus in my head, lazy-
eyed soprano, stars
in the eponymous musical
alongside the black Judas, shifty-
eyed, gruff rockstar.
The Jesus in my head, sleeping
with washed feet, doesn’t bleed
when his crown descends. Night falls
on my crucified singer like a tree
that couldn’t bear the weight
of Judas. In my head, awake
with impure thoughts of the deceiver,
the noose hugged his throat when cocks
crowed. My suicidal Judas like a bush
on fire with a message only for me.
Dallas (Two Drafts)
Jedediah’s Trip to Dallas
with His Girlfriend
It’s a kind of
spiritual snobbery that makes people think they can be happy without money.
––Albert
Camus
My brother couldn’t fit her
family
into his rental car. A week
of cramped air,
taking residence at the
grandmother’s house. That fell
and broke her hip, that has
brain tumors,
that allots her grandchildren
five hundred
dollars each year for
Christmas and Jed
a gift card to Starbucks.
Back to the house:
a Spanish-Colonial style manor,
four rooms,
as many baths, restored to original glory. Separated
parents require two rooms,
the king-
sized bed is the
grandmothers. The brother gets a twin,
the girlfriend, a queen. Jed
is on the couch.
Back to the rental
car: a pile of snow
on the roof, frozen
glass. The family
doesn’t fit, they’re stuck
to the TV, watching a
black-and-white movie
unfurl–– a happy family
rejecting the supremacy of
money and pulling down
moons for one another. Jed
reluctantly bought tickets
to the hockey game: Kings
versus Stars.
Back to the moon, back to
California: driving
their own cars. The tumors
turn
cancerous, she dies. They
never return
to Dallas, but send money for
the funeral anyway.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jedediah’s Trip to Texas with
His Girlfriend
It’s a kind of
spiritual snobbery that makes people think they can be happy without money.
––Albert
Camus
My brother couldn’t fit any
more of her family
into his rental car. A week
of compressed gravity,
taking residence at the
grandmother’s. A malady
of brain tumors, but always retaining
the pageantry
of Christmas, allotting her
grandchildren seven hundred
dollars every year. The
present of a funded drunkard,
Jed gets a Starbucks gift card. The bigger Dallas
tundra
surrounding the Colonial
style haunted wonder:
four rooms, as many baths, not
enough space. Separated
parents require two rooms,
get one, leave bed serrated.
Grandmother’s on death bed. The
brother, a twin. Frustrated
girlfriend, a queen. Jed, the
couch. The rental car: faded
snow on the roof, frozen
glass. The family doesn’t fit
so they are stuck; to the split-back
couch, the TV, the film––
an old movie unfurling––the
happy family
sitting around a Christmas
tree, pulling down the moonlit
stars for one another. Jed
reluctantly bought tickets
to a hockey game: Kings
versus Stars. Back to the picture
of the moon, back to California:
counting state limit
lines, chirps of crickets.
The tumor turns cancerous, secrets
spill out from her radiated scalp,
no one listening.
She dies, lessens the
distance. With her body stiffening,
they choose to never return
to Dallas, no visiting,
but send money for the
funeral, her transitioning.
instagram
my friends on their phones
would rather tell me to make
a funny face, take a picture, snap
chat it to sleeping strangers,
laugh and never let me in on it
than be in a photo with me,
for ourselves. would rather
impersonally push buttons,
a digital keypad, than open their mouths.
don’t they know? the closer you watch
a mouth when someone is talking the less and
less you’ll hear. the less you watch a mouth
when your friend is talking, the less and
less they’ll say.
my friends on their phones
would rather tell me to make
a funny face, take a picture, snap
chat it to sleeping strangers,
laugh and never let me in on it
than be in a photo with me,
for ourselves. would rather
impersonally push buttons,
a digital keypad, than open their mouths.
don’t they know? the closer you watch
a mouth when someone is talking the less and
less you’ll hear. the less you watch a mouth
when your friend is talking, the less and
less they’ll say.
Prescription Glasses
Prescription Glasses
Today, at the cost of growing smaller,
I developed the world like a Polaroid
until it was finally clear before me.
Blurry discounts of Walmart
visible, the weight
of plastic and glass––
paychecks––on my temples
and nose. The wait of the World
Market line, seeing every country,
ethnicity, as clear as they
have never seen me. My glasses––
windows for, not to, my eyes––
make me look older, don’t fit
my face properly. I miss
the haziness of my world
where the TV kaleidoscoped,
body hair morphed to skin tone
and there were no branches in my yard.
Today, at the cost of growing smaller,
I developed the world like a Polaroid
until it was finally clear before me.
Blurry discounts of Walmart
visible, the weight
of plastic and glass––
paychecks––on my temples
and nose. The wait of the World
Market line, seeing every country,
ethnicity, as clear as they
have never seen me. My glasses––
windows for, not to, my eyes––
make me look older, don’t fit
my face properly. I miss
the haziness of my world
where the TV kaleidoscoped,
body hair morphed to skin tone
and there were no branches in my yard.
Driving Back From Santa Barbara
Driving Back From Santa Barbara
I drive past peanut brittle
bones under wild brush
buried. Road work
roaring over the sea
as emerald as ivory.
The shadows
of the trees on pavement
like foam on waves,
the slow-motion flexing
of nature's muscles.
The sun sets like an eyelid
after an unnoticed day.
---
The drive back at night,
the dark ocean, beckons me
with lights on oil rigs.
Calling me to a life on water
spent only looking
at the horizon, not the coast.
The unopened book, my passenger,
is a planet.
I drive past peanut brittle
bones under wild brush
buried. Road work
roaring over the sea
as emerald as ivory.
The shadows
of the trees on pavement
like foam on waves,
the slow-motion flexing
of nature's muscles.
The sun sets like an eyelid
after an unnoticed day.
---
The drive back at night,
the dark ocean, beckons me
with lights on oil rigs.
Calling me to a life on water
spent only looking
at the horizon, not the coast.
The unopened book, my passenger,
is a planet.