Arts and Crafts We go shopping in the arts and crafts store full of inspirational sayings and rustic signs like “Be Someone’s Reason to Smile” and “Bless This Kitchen” and I am overcome with the feeling of childhood, being told how to act, as if my adult life has somehow not prepared me for what to do in all particular situations and so I must need to buy these signs to tell me how I should behave and what I should think. Of course, we all must look at these and say, that is so me, or they wouldn’t sell in the first place. I hold up a picture frame filled with a collage of different black and white shots, a couple holding hands smiling, children laughing, a mother and daughter, presumably, baking together with smiles, of course. A woman next to me piles the frames in her cart, one after the next, a primitive, unrefined style of unfinished wood, another one in shiny gold with slight patina camouflaging the newness. She glances over at me and smiles swiftly grabbing a wall hanging with a chicken wearing a pearl necklace and a faded blue bow with “Be One of a Kind” in bold letters across the top. She studies it for a while and puts it in her cart taking two more, supposedly for gifts, because why not when uniqueness is so darn affordable.
My Old Self I don't know if you know, but 4 weeks ago today my partner of 18 years died. Of what I don't know, and never will. Karen's son didn't want a post mortem. I think she should have had one. Somebody's at fault for a fit, strong 53 year old woman dying after only being ill for a couple of months. But that's not what I started to write about, I wanted to say that after these 4 weeks, I'm beginning to see that I might be able to get through this. At first I really didn't think that I would, but now I'm feeling stronger, and more like myself as every day goes by. The days are long, but the weeks go by so quickly it's really shocking. I can hardly believe that 4 weeks have passed since she passed. At times it feels more like 4 hours, 4 days maybe, but 4 weeks. No fucking way. Anyway, I just wanted to say that I still love Karen as much as I ever have, but I'm beginning to slowly, SLOWLY get my head what passes for together. I know it's what she would have wanted. Karen wouldn't have wanted me to drink, or drug myself to death. I'm starting to think that I won't.
Get Forked "Johnny wake up man. I think you need to take me to the hospital. Come on, wake up!" " What ? What's going on Bigotes? You have Asthma attack? Where is your bomba?" He sits up in bed and turns on the lamp on the nightstand. "No Johnny, that crazy bitch stabbed me in the back. I can't tell if I'm bleeding or how deep the knife is stuck in . Whatever you do don't pull it out, I'll bleed to death before we get to the hospital. " Okay okay tranquilo carnal let me take a look." " Johnny I'm serious don't fuck around." I turn my back to him so he can get a closer look. "Santiago I don't think it is a knife in your back. I think maybe it is a fork she stab you with. What did you do to make her to stab you with a fork?" "A fork are you sure? Take another look. Look closer. Johnny turn on the other light." He finds the switch for the ceiling light to get a better idea of the wound's severity. "Yes Bigotes it is a fork not a knife. You should have me pull it out. I don't know if it is in very deep." "Wait, let me think about it for a minute." "Santi, tell me why she stab you?" "She wanted more cocaine and more cocaine and more cocaine. She was acting all strange and sketchy. I told her there wasn't anymore, she got pissed off, started screaming at me, calling me a liar. I got up out of the bed, started putting on my clothes to get away from her, then I felt her stab me. She picked up her shit and ran out the door. Where'd you find that Psycho-bitch man?" "She is my cousin from Medellin." "What the hell. Of course another crazy person from your family. I should've figured as much. Are all your relatives mentally ill? I thought you were calling her prima(cousin) as a nickname. Like I joke and call prostitutes prima." "I know I am sorry. Everyone in my family is crazy with mental problems. I'm so lucky I have nothing wrong with me." "Are you serious? You've gotta be joking.You're the craziest, Psycho-colombiano, Mentally unstable individual I've ever been associated with." "Bigotes why you say such mean things to me? I sometimes get crazy in a party way or when I get drunk and stuff but that's all. Maybe you can get somebody else to take the fork out. You don't want some crazy person doing it." "Sorry Rico, I don't mean anything by it. You know I love you despite your qwerks. I try to apologize. Okay let's get the fucking fork out of my back and see what kind of damage we're dealing with here." "There is not a lot of blood, Bigotes. But she sure pushed it deep. I didn't know a fork could be a dangerous weapon. Okay you are ready?" "No, I'm not ready. But go ahead and do it anyway." "Wait, I think maybe I should have a towel in case maybe you start bleeding a lot. Then we need to have the cut circlesized with alcohol for no infection. Oh no, I hope you will not need switches the hospital is very far away Bigotes." I begin laughing from Johnny mispronouncing words and giving the incident an entirely different aspect. He's acting so dramatically I can't help but find it amusing. I don't remember when I've seen him so serious as though he is a Doctor giving me a prognosis. "Why you laughing Bigotes? Because you don't want to cry?" "No Johnny, I was laughing at the words you used in English. I'm very proud of you J.R. you have come a long way with learning English, but sometimes you say a word incorrectly or mispronounce a word and it ends up being humorous. I'm not making fun of you my friend, it's just funny. "So what you think I'm funny? Funny like what, like a clown? I what, I make you laugh? How am I funny?" "Now that's hilarious Johnny! You remembered that from "Good Fellas." You do it better than Joe Pesci, very good." I'm laughing hysterically,and I start applauding his performance but it causes the fork to move around and I instantly become uncomfortable . "I always want to do that. I'm happy you laugh. Tell me what words I say wrong when I get back with a towel and some alcohol. I think we can use Tequila. Is there still some Patron left?" "Yes it's in the freezer. Good thinking Johnny." He returns drinking from the bottle of Tequila. "Now we are ready, you think? Yes?" "Let's do it!" The fork was stuck in my left lower shoulder in the ancestis, the spot on your back that you're unable to reach to scratch. I still had my shirt on with the fork having been stuck through it. Slowly I took off the shirt so Johnny had quick access, it just hung there on the shaft. "Bigotes I don't know if I can do it." "For Christ's sake J.R. just pull the God Damn fork out. Do it! It won't hurt. In fact, give me the bottle of Tequila. I need a drink." "Maybe you should drink more to not feel pain." Good idea again buddy. You're really showing your smarts. Ooh, you know what, I have some Vicodin in my jacket. Can you grab it for me please?" Johnny returns with my jacket in hand sporting a huge grin. "Look what you have in the pocket. Here are the pills, look what else you're hiding, a small vial filled with Cocaine and two puros that we forget to smoke at the beach. Now take your medicine and when you feel no pain, we will take out the fork." It was 3:45 in the morning and it's not like I had to go to work or anything. Plus I'd been wounded in action and could lounge around all day. I think it's Saturday anyway and I don't have any appointments on my calendar, so here we go. I swallowed a couple Vicodin, snorted a cap full of Cocaine, then Johnny passed me the bottle of Tequila. I took a long swig. ". Now let me explain why I was laughing earlier. I think you meant to say sterilize but you said circlesize which sounds similar to the word circumcised which has a totally different meaning. Circumcise is when a doctor cuts the extra skin off the penis of a baby boy." "Why they do such a thing?" "It was started by the ancient Egyptians then practiced by the Jewish people and on and on. I'm not going to get into the reasons." "So you have circhimsize? I see your pene is different from mine. I am no circhimsize I still have the skin." "Ya I know Rico, I don't want to be talking about our Dicks, okay?" I quickly changed the subject. "Stitches are what the doctor sews you up with when you have a large cut. I think you said switches. You understand?" Johnny lights a joint and passes it over to me. "I have a question. Why you always call Marijuana Trisumman? Why does it have that name?" Again I start laughing. "Hey, now I am going to get very angry, you laugh at me more." "Sorry Rico, I'm saying, "try some man" and you put all three words together. Guess I say it too fast and it sounds like one word." Johnny now finds the humor in what I'm saying and begins chuckling. We sat there talking and joking with Johnny doing all sorts of imitations now that I had been amused by the Joe Pesci he did. They weren't very funny but I laughed anyway I think because I was a little drunk, Vicodin high, coked up and stoned. Then we were startled by banging on the front door. I looked at the clock and it was 5:20 and I still had the fork in my back, although feeling no pain. " Who the hell do you think that could be?" I whisper. "You think that bitch called the police?" "I don't know but I will go to the door and see. Okay? Just relax, I will take care of it." "Thanks Johnny." He staggers to the front door and I take cover around the corner of the front room within hearing distance. " Quien es acá?" ( Who's here?) Johnny asks. I don't understand why he just doesn't look out the window on the side. I hear a woman's voice but not well enough to know what she's saying. " Esperame uno segundo." ( Wait a second.) I hear him answer. He walks back in the bedroom shaking his head and chuckling. "Bigotes it is my cousin again. She has no money for Taxi or bus and wants to say she is sorry to you." "What do you think? Does she seem normal to you, not all weird?" "I'm not sure. You make the call." "Okay let her in but don't let her come near me." He goes to the door swinging it open but stepping back out the way. She struts in and walks straight toward me. "Hey Rico, you better get over here." "Don't worry Santiago, I'm not going to do anything to you. I want to say I'm sorry and to make it up to you. I didn't hurt you real bad, did I?" "You stabbed me in the back with a fucking fork! Here, take a look." I turn my back to her, so she can see her handy work. Then I feel her hand grab the fork and with a swift motion she pulls it out. "I'm so sorry baby let me make it up to you." She drops her dress on the living room floor, grabs my hand and leads me into my bedroom. "Make sure she has no scissors in her purse. She might try to circumlize you." Johnny yells. "Thanks for watching out for me Johnny." "So you have some more cocaine?" She inquires.
Quotidian morning – Dusty house stuccoed by desert sand, Sadr City thinning north into farmland, we roll in on a $500 informant’s tip. A song thrush flits cheerfully through sunlit branches of the courtyard’s cedar. Inside, a shadowy place: main room floor covered with intricately woven carpets, low red couches along walls, red-brown curtains pushed aside from casement windows. Another room visible from a cased opening, Bright extension cord to the courtyard’s silent generator leads us like an orange spoor to this room of four sweat-stained mattresses, several floor candlesticks. Cups of tea rest on an octagonal coffee table like someone just left. Then another, heavy, door opened like a door of horrific perception, and we pull hooked flashlights from body armor: shackles hang down from bolts in the far wall, the big-armed wooden chair with leather belts for arms, Legs, a board table with knives, pliers laid out, power drill, electric lamp hooked to the extension cord, dark stains color all: drill bit, floor, knives, the stained fabric sheet over a body on the floor, which Pulled back by my rifle’s muzzle, hides silent screaming shock in unblinking eyes. afternoon – The camera's gps signal brings us, searching, street by street, the Army's obsession with equipment the hound at our backs, until a Humvee gunner spots a white wing tipping in a chamber pot pond banked by a crumbling mud wall. Sniper in the area over a week, special forces called in after our casualty -- he got our Raven, its big model airplane white clipped from the sky, spun into this nightmare of sewage. Our dismounts are cautious, gunners spin on turret rails, scanning windows over stretched ropes of laundry. A teen moves to us with the cheerful, needy pleading of Iraqi kids, "For American dollars.” Pointing to his chest, to the plane's wing, back to himself. Told "No" by a sergeant who motions him away with an arm, the kid ducks under like a scrappy knife-fighter, "For American dollars." We talk of some kind of hook tied to 550 cord, tossed out. Decide someone could go back to camp but by then it would be dark, we'd hold position too long, expect to take fire. Dark, in the canyons of sand-colored houses, just one of our enemies. "For American dollars." I think -- as a staff sergeant unsnaps body armor, fishes a five from a velcroed ID wallet, Before the kid wades into the waste’s benthic infections: if we leave he'll go after it anyway, and anyway, I know he'll look for us tomorrow, smiling, in a fresh tunic.
Hard Heads Clouds coming in for another gathering over the mute masses raining down chemical changes ingesting opposing thoughts their multiple eyes searing loose bowels and weak souls but not us we are the Hard Heads dashing out of line out of their long fingers gripping the jelly population we shout in the alleys for their quick amputation let the bullets ping off our foreheads let their drills break on our front teeth let their message melt from the heat of our breath for they only win if we bow to the chopping block. Cleansing Sitting at a park bench blank paper absorbing drops of rain writing a few words heavy head city bloated waiting to split crime inside everyone bellowing storm everything starting to fall out wet dirt coiling into little mounds horns as slick as sin watching our step leaping into a moment of free air freak dancing footprints the last line of this poem.
Peacock trailing success In a bin that cater not for talents. blurry view, I am sustained with filthy arms searching for victory, I am a ripped shadow with pretty poetry, looking crippled in the bin that has consumed a lot. cladding in triumph I have retired all ill lucks, therein. I think this folded win should peel its dress- this heart of mine gaping to eat it all. snuggle not my age-long success say farewell In February
He Figured He figured nobody would probably Give a sit if he lived or died. He’d avoid the annoyance of A funeral by giving his body, As they say, “to science”. Which isn’t What most people think it is. May not be getting’ sent to some Med school for student dissection. Could be getting’ the head removed To test lip stick or shave cream. Guts pulled out to see what acids The stomach and ‘testines could take. Gonads fed to critters checking Testosterone transfer. Maybe, If lucky, you get sent to that place To just get laid about to just watch Natural decomposition in the woods And feed the squirrels.
The Day I Learned About the Vampire Ground-Finch For the first time in years, I thought of you — the velvety notes of your Thierry Mugler that both nauseated and captivated me, the way your 6'4'' heavy build pinned me to the wall while your crew praised you as a golden god. After three years with you, I discovered that your entire essence could fit into the palm of my hand. I wondered how I allowed you to overtake me for that long. Did I choose to ignore your sharp beak as it first broke my skin, the insatiable way you engorged on my thin lifeblood the way your shifty dull eyes gauged my tolerance to repeated pecks that were somehow indiscernible to me? The day you decided I was of no use to you anymore, you spread your bloated, blackened wings and pelted dust into my eyes. I didn't grasp the value of your absence then. I do now.
My least favorite
How do you make money?
Who gives a flying fuck?
When 85% of working humans
hate their jobs
Alternate answers –
So, what do you do?
and hate gravity
So, what do you do?
in my waistband
So, what do you do?
then I can read
So, what do you do?
the meaning of it all
while riding my lawn mower
around the yard
So, what do you do?
until I bleed
self-conscious that I’m not
clean enough down there
So, what do you do?
light reflect off
shadows twist and fall
So, what do you do?
Write bad poetry.
That’s the sound that would often come from my mouth when
I was seven years old,
My tongue flapping like a fish stranded on shore,
Unable to breathe
As I attempted and failed to stammer out a word.
So I kept my mouth shut most of the time,
Blended into the background,
Eager to please but frightened to speak.
Praying the teacher wouldn’t call on me,
Because the answer was in my head
But couldn’t reach my lips.
My brother would taunt me mercilessly,
Sometimes my father would, too.
There was even a song.
But the worst were the faces of those
Trying to comprehend my hum-like blather.
They knew not to interrupt,
Not to finish my sentence
As I m-m-m’d and n-n-n’d before them,
A jester performing embarrassing acts at gunpoint.
They couldn’t look in my eyes,
So they would avert their eyes and find my trembling lips
As I vainly attempted to be understood.
Their eyes would soften in a fascinated reverie,
Staring at my mouth:
My mouth a toy spinning for their bemused well-meaning
I despised them for their silent pity,
I envied them their minds that could so easily
Place fully formed words on their tongues.
Now my words glide as effortlessly as a gull downwind,
And I take for granted the gift that was bestowed upon me
Too gradually and too late,
As I blend into the background still,
My raspy New York voice a buzzing din,
And me a dull watercolor,
Many years ago
Painted by a desperate child
Without a voice.
Lying in bed naked,
Listening to James McMurtry
With my eyes in their surety
Of soreness and lack of faith,
Feeling my beard and sadness,
Thinking exclusively in lower
I stretch my naked
Body under the spinning of
The ceiling fan and that old
Ache feels familiar as always
And the coolness of my body
Makes me smile in spite of sad-
Lying in bed naked,
Turning off the light and trying
To get my body in position,
Long past waiting for the call
That never comes, content now
Just to lie in bed and merely
For the one call
This is inevitable.