Past Due
 
Quit stalling, will ya? You were supposed 
to be here by now. Your mother is so anxious 
 
for your long-anticipated arrival she’s been
bouncing on an exercise ball to urge you on. 
 
What fun times you’re missing! What sights! 
Just today I saw the sun go down in a profusion 
 
of toxic colors like a ship full of chemicals 
burning intently at the edge of the world.

Rabbit’s Foot
 
I had a lucky rabbit’s foot.
Somewhere there was 
An unlucky rabbit missin’
One foot…maybe more.
I lost it, so much for luck.
Maybe some lucky fool
Found it and went lookin’
For the rabbit it went to.
In that case, the finder
Was probably more nutz
Than lucky.  If he went
Lookin’ for the poor rabbit
Down a gator’s gullet,
There might be a gator
Out there now with a
Lucky rabbit’s foot and
A lucky arm inside him. 

back at the old farm
 
and in my dreams
i'm back at the old farm
 
love of my life smoking
a joint on the front porch
 
i sip on the oldest bottle 
of scotch i have watching 
dark clouds roll in yet again
 
when you are no longer
scared to die, thunder and 
lightning and any rage from 
mother nature never fills you
with any ounce of dread
 
ease back into the easy chair
and grab an old book
 
we always wanted to 
take down the world 
on our own terms
 
sometimes you have to take
a step or two back to recollect 
yourself and allow the view
to completely come into play
 
she passes me the joint and i 
kindly open my third eye
 
they warned me when i was
younger about taking drugs
 
i now understand they simply
wanted to keep the good shit 
to themselves
 
a unicorn will graze in the back 
pasture and we'll drift off into 
the ether
 
comfortably plotting 
our next move
------------------------------------------------------------------
listening to old nina simone records
 
it's a harrowing voice
out of an old speaker
 
you can recall the days
you used to lay around
naked, smoking cigarettes
while listening to old
nina simone records
 
the poems would come
faster than teenage boys
watching their first porno
 
you knew right away about 
genius and greatness
 
and all the editors that
rejected this brilliance
were fucking fools
 
now with hindsight
 
you realize that asshole
couldn't write worth a shit
 
but this asshole here,
he can lay down the words
like a fucking madman
 
like some cleanup hitter
that never fails to drive
in the runs
 
the great ones re-invent 
themselves every few years
 
not out of some necessity
but out of pure fucking 
boredom
 
when that trick goes away
there is only one dark corner
left to stumble upon

Prey 
 
God in His Heaven saw this that night  
when He looked down through His blackened sky: 
In the dead of night, 
apartment lights glow on the sidewalk.  
 
And the outline of a child  
could be seen from above. 
 
In the back of a pick-up behind the apartments, 
I laid myself down in the Winston packs and wet leaves, 
legs exposed to the moon.  
 
Homeschooled till 9th grade.   
Beaten and watched.  
You can stare at your kid all day, 
but eventually you’ll have to sleep.   
 
In the truck bed, 
a long-haired boy unzipped 
and cut hips into my inner thighs.   
He was working hard, his eyes gripped tight.   
But I had the spotlight, and this was my stage.                                      
 
Other boys smoked behind the dumpster,  
salivating, waiting to feed on me next.   
Freed from single mothers in the dead of night,  
they pressed my spine in the rust,  
dragged my hair through the dust.   
I was dirty, my shorts under me, 
then had to wear them home.  
 
* 
 
When I woke on my pillow a few hours later,  
bruises were blooming between my legs. 
 
The world is immoral, 
my parents warned during family devotions.   
So this must be normal behavior out here.   
 
But if this was so common among Unbelievers,  
why would the neighborhood judge me for this— 
the girls down the street screaming whore at my house?   
 
After breakfast, my face against the painted-shut windows, 
the bus would take those kids to school.   
But I was only thirteen and homeschooled  
with no other escape than  
my spine in the rust in the back of a truck.  
 
 
 
 
Operation Rescue 
 
1991, I was 15.   
And on the corner of 12th and Locust, 
Mrs. Gee gently told me  
to stop making eye contact with drivers 
at the stop sign. 
 
I was there with pamphlets for passers-by. 
I was there to share my story: 
my son was safe somewhere.  
 
In the middle of Center City, Philly,  
a tiny garden is protected by an iron gate.  
It wasn’t my job to block it.  
From the outskirts,  
I watched the choreography at the entryway.   
Fathers and nuns and young adults prayed rosaries,  
beseeched Mary to ask her Son to make abortion illegal again. 
Thus clinic visits were prevented 
until the police arrived by bus, zip-tied the congregation,  
and took them all away. 
 
It was quiet in ‘94 when I took an elevator  
from a Miami parking garage to my appointment.  
No protestors were staked-out outside offering other choices 
or threatening hell with horrifying signs, 
no need to be escorted inside. 
 
When it was done,  
that tiny spirit and I fell out the 8th floor window  
like shadows from the silent sky. 
 

BARREN

Sticks and stones
Could break my bones
As time passes 
Words become harder
Than all the stones 
It breaks me faster than the sticks
I become balloon 
Filled with gas and not love 
A little prick and I am burst 
I am Earth: people walk on my back
And as ocean, people swim in my emotion
Their words bruise my soul 
Just because 
I am a barren woman.

Eyes, Expectant Eyes

All tables for four;
expectant eyes on me;
Am I waiting for other guests?
Surely?
Or will the server keep their eyes on me,
In a table, for,
one?

Or, to hide my alone-maly,
will I be carried,
to uncomfortable stools of the waiting bar,
meeting eyes with strangers drunk next to me,
as the master behind the bar shakes mixers,
expecting my applause?
And then, will my neck sense
the eyes of employees,
expectant,
behind me,
as I
fumble
with money bills after my uneasy drink?

Alas, I'm rescued by a cafe with books.
I’m sipping bubble-tea, easing into nooks
resting by the window parapet,
softly into cushioned corners,
watching other eyes laughing, fighting, rolling, loving,
in tables for four
but thankfully
no eyes
on
me.

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.