It's like my grandfather always told me: Mike, when life hands you Lemons, ask for a paternity test.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

The Poetics of Jokes: Zombies

Have you ever thought about zombie attacks?
I have.
And I decided that if there were a zombie infestation,
I would just go with it.
We already live in a world that accepts the undead—Rob Zombie,
Cannibal Corpse, Nancy Grace—
and if we learned anything from the Thriller video,
the undead make great dancers.
Except the white ones;
not even death can fix their groove.

Zombies don’t actually want to pick
your brains. They’re just looking for love.
But the way they go about finding love
is appalling. They’re too touchy feely.

Saturday Morning at Rimkus Park

-Leon Valley, Texas

    Catch iiiiiiiiiiiiiit!!!
rang through the air,
and a scramble ensued
            three players converging
                 where the leather
                        ball might
No one catches it,
and the whole field
erupts into laughter
and  its first language.

The dark players, dressed in polos
and trainers, reset, and focus
on the duel. One stands
tall, the protectorate, a flat
bat defending three long sticks.
The other, a few paces back,
gathers speed, and hurls
the projectile. The ball takes
one bounce before reaching
the batter.

I must hit the ball merges and contrasts with Only one wicket.

The batter wins, and the ball
rises to a chorus of Catch iiiiit!!!
And I’m on the outside,
foreign to both game and language,
leaning by the sign
For Baseball
and Softball
use only.

Thursday, September 22, 2011


            -for “Bob Roberston”

A fistful of words
slipped through their fingers, never
to reach the others.
Who is this man, this Stranger
who played both sides for money?

A pocketwatch chimes
as Mortimer, and Manco
and El Indio
wait for the finish—the start
of the silence which will chime.

Just a name would do,
but he is Blondie, and now
Angel Eyes, Tuco,
and he face off, a fifteen
minute Mexican standoff.

Thursday, September 15, 2011


For this week, I'm working on parallel structure, as well as narrative. Please leave revision notes in the comments. I think I'll expand the second stanza in another poem.

Waiting again,
stale, out dated magazines my companions.
And he's sighing,
stale, old breath mixing with the anti-septic.
And he's thinking
generic thoughts too cheap to speak out loud.
God, I hate waiting.

Waiting again,
wind swirling dust from under benches.
And she's counting,
slow breaths between the wheezes.
And she's singing,
harmonies to sooth her coughing child.
Deus, salva minha criança.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Internal Rhyme Exercise

This was written as an exercise this morning, in preparation for other poems. Should I continue, or rather, finish the idea before revising?

Hole in the Rock
These aren't my people
I thought from the rocking boat
looking at steep cliffs varnished
red and bleached white by a man-
made lake, whose water creeps
and laps, creeps and laps, and rocks
me now to memory.
Men in wagons once came,
looking down and across a
canyon. Trusting in God, pulleys
and ropes, the cast wagons and oxen
over the axis of faith, to steady
ground below.