To an Unborn Daughter

-for Hilary

You’re only a thought I now

impress onto your mom.

My fingers write your name

on her skin. With slight pressure,

I inscribe I M O G E N

across her stomach.

Who knew we willed you to life?

Now, you’re on the way,

and it’s never too early to start.

I kiss your mom’s distended belly

and whisper Ramona will be

your new name. You will be smarter

than we. And with that, I write poems

to you. Your mom sings.

You kick in accord.

Then, there were complications.

Now, you’re again a thought

impressed in our souls. Your mom

and I feel your name on our lips,

bellies and fingers. Imogen.

Ramona. How can we call you?

How could we forget?

Castroville, Texas (October 13, 2011)

I.
In the basement where Germans
brewed beer stored in small kegs,
you can now buy carved icons,
New Mexican incense and Oaxaca wallets.

II.
Upstairs, a man sells venison sausage,
which he pairs with Wisconsin smoked
gouda and imported Norwegian Jarlsberg.

III.
Besides the Château, city hall deals
with public disturbances. The drunks
climb the historic fire escape for a slide.
The town is not impressed.

IV.
Up two blocks, pecans fall
around the square. Nature's
offering.

V.
At the Old Alsatian Steakhouse
& Ristoriante, the veal piccata
is highly recommended.

Punishment

For using the word "trespassing" in the thesis and
justifying its usage during the presentation the professor-
from BYU not UTSA
me this angry note
Find a poet from India,
and write a 6 7 page
in mauve crayon
Due at my office
between 5-7

While Listening to Monk

she slips easily in
between the notes.
But the silence!

Now that's noisy.

he falls into silence.
Wanders for days.

Thelonious listens to himself.
Fingers on keys, waiting...

The pause is long-a hundred
batons crack his skull again-
even for him.

He pushes onto the next note.

The Poetics of Jokes: Zombies

I.

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.

II.

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

                              fall…

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.

Unspoken

Unspoken

            -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.

Waiting

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.

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.

Untitled

I am wary of

Plutonium leaking out.

Entire districts'

produce are banned in Japan.

Why? Plutonium

sank deep into our Mother,

poisoning what she would give.

The Children of Tsutomu

I'm trying to wrap my head around the current natural and atomic crises going on in Japan. I previously wrote a waka about Tsutomu Yamaguchi, a man who survived both atomic bombings. Given what this generation of Japanese are dealing with, I wrote this and the next poem. Tell me what you think.

The Children of Tsutomu

My heart extends to

the Children of Tsutomu.

You inherited

Atomic inclinations.

Now, when fierce waters

rise over borders, also

your Father's nightmares return.

Music Project: "Ruby, My Dear" by Thelonious Monk

Cigarettes

“Who’s coming back from the grave tonight, Max?”

“Let me see,” Max said, and began searching through a crate of old 33’s. “How ‘bout Lady Day?”

“Oh, that’ll do me just fine,” Cole replied.

Max, the bartender, knew him and quickly placed his favorite beer before him. Cole nursed it, as Max gently placed the needle down. “I’m a fool to want you, I’m a fool to want you, To want a love” came through scratchy, but pure. Cole smiled at the thought. He had come to this bar for years and had left countless partners swinging to Monk, Parker and Coltrane. He steadied the cigarette between his lips and lit the match. He inhaled deeply and felt the first exhilaration fill his lung, his body. One of life’s miracles he thought as the smoke mixed with the music waiting in the bar’s atmosphere. They swirled around each other, then greeted, and then danced towards the ceiling. Watching over them were framed portraits of jazz greats: Basie, Ellington and Henderson seemed to count time to the dancing elements. Countless partners he thought again and laughed. “Time and time again, I said I’d leave you” began playing when the bar’s door opened, and in walked a woman Cole didn’t recognize. She sat down two stools from him.

“Double tonic and gin, please,” she asked.

“Preference in what gin, ma’am,” Max asked.

“Don’t matter none. It all gets you drunk, one way or another,” she said.

“Coming right up, ma’am,” Max said.

He gave Cole a look, but he just shrugged back. The woman searched in her purse, and Cole took his chance to give her the go over: soft hair set up on her head, low cut showing, shapely legs, scuffed pumps, a little weight on her hips, eyes set apart by mascara. Man, does she have some eyes. He took another swig of beer, and slid over a stool.

“That’s a tall order for a pretty thing like you,” Cole said.

She glared back at him, and didn’t say a word. Her drink arrived. She took it, and standing up, made her way to the opposite side of the bar. Cole smiled to himself, and decided on a different approach. He stood up, gave a wink to Max, and started his way to the mystery woman. He took a drag of his cigarette for effect, and sat down beside her. He extended his silver case and calmly asked,

“Cigarette?”

Her smile seemed irritated, but she grabbed one.

“I must say you’re persistent,” she said, as he lighted her cigarette.

“The truth is most call me Cole,” he said.

Well then, Cole” she paused, letting the tip flare bright, and as the smoke leaves, said “you can call me Sarah.”

“Sarah –isn’t that a beautiful name. Way you walked in here reminded me of how Sarah Vaughn sings.”

“Oh, and how’s that,” Sarah purred, leaning over.

“When you walked in, all that sass comes right on out.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but let a laugh out.

“Mr. Cole, you are something else.”

Cole smiled and took a drag. He looked at her eyes, and slowly let the smoke leave his mouth. Max brought Sarah’s drink over, and sent Cole a wink. This might be the start of something good he thought to himself. He leaned over to Sarah, and whispered into her ear. His smoke slowly circle, then joined Sarah's, and began dancing on the ceiling dancefloor, all to Holiday singing "For all we know, We may never meet again. Before we go..."

Previews to Two New Stories

"Sadness and Cigarette Smoke" (Working Title)

He had come to this bar for years and had left countless partners swinging to Monk, Parker and Coltrane. He steadied the cigarette between his lips and lit the match. He inhaled deeply and felt the first exhilaration fill his lung, his body. One of life’s miracles he thought as he let the smoke mix with the music waiting in the bar’s atmosphere. They swirled around each other, then greeted, and then danced towards the ceiling. Watching over them were framed portraits of jazz greats: Basie, Ellington and Henderson seemed to count time to the dancing elements. Countless partners he thought again and laughed. “Time and time again, I said I’d leave you” began playing when the bar’s door opened, and in walked a woman Cole didn’t recognize.

"Bumps"

On the way back, a dog ran out onto the highway and met my front bumper. I laughed.

“Are you sick? You probably killed that dog. Why did you laugh?”

To this day, I don’t know why. Maybe I saw in that dog my own attempts to pursue a better life across the highway, and like him, I was blindsided. Or, maybe I laughed because of the absurdity of it all. Fate had a contract out for that dog, and I, the pacifist, was its agent in destruction.

Four Seasons

Imbibed with freedom,

I sway back and forth, to the

delight of children.

Wintertime one finds

me dormant underneath mounds

of pristine, white snow.

Falling rain awakes

my potential, but I alone

must reach the surface.

In early sunlight

I find nourishment and strength

for the noontime sun.

Another Haiku

Here's another haiku to add to Incandescent (A Series of Haikus)

Inspiration comes

to man through the advent of

40 watts above.

For Tsutomu Yamaguchi: The Man who Survived Two A-Bombs

Can you hear me now?

I was at Hiroshima.

When sounds turned silent.

I was burned badly, but still

I survived to find

my way to Nagasaki.

I was there both days

when azure skies flashed brightly.

Are you listening?

For I arose from falling

Snowy ash, as the witness.

Human Folklore

Your stories are

Incomprehensible, layered in

Multiplicity, a mixture

Of Strange, Strong Sounds.

Yet, you persist,

These are you stories. Remember, Re

Member us, the fathers, through these...

Your words sprout as

Pomegranates

Fruit that entices and complicates. Have

(you, they, I, we?)

ever cut into a pomegranate?

It is hard to open, the contents

Impossible

to Hold. The seeds

are sour and they stain lips crimson,

Then leave me ashamed, a spectacle

To the timid.

But you never

Cared. You sat in shame, mouths colored

Red. You laugh, then begin telling stories

For the timid.

Sit down, our sons,

our daughters, while we, the fathers,

reveal our common roots and

mold your futures.

Liberty came

Because we took up your cause, long

before you were you. We ask you

to go and Do...

But do what? You

branched out and divided until

stories became the term that holds

all the options.

I want to Un

Ravel you, open through your tall tales

Understanding. I taste the first seeds.

They are sour.

Question

I read this blog called I'll Never Forget the Day I a Book, which is pretty boss. The author reviews books, as well as post interesting questions. In a recent post, he asked about what makes literature "literature." Here's a link to his post.

Leave your comments, and I'll try to think my way through this question.

Music Project: "Lollipop" by Mika

Thou Shalt

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

Thou shalt n…

Matt’s hand cramps. He has written the commandment as punishment 178 times. Only 72 more “Thou shalt nots,” and then he presents it to his mother for approval and rebuke. The cramp slowly leaves, but it takes him back to his transgression.

Matt sat alone on the playground. He always does; his mother doesn’t want him playing with the “unwashed.” So, he sits alone, and watches the rest of the fifth grade class play during recess. He once begged Ms. Carpwhipple to stay inside, but she replied,

“Matthew, your mother may not allow you to play, but you still need to be out there with your friends.”

Friends? The girls found him off putting and strange, while the other boys bullied. Only Katie ever talked to Matt. Across the playground his classmates were playing, but at her Matt focused his attention. She was playing double dutch with Sally Jenkins, Dorothy Rosenberg, and Madison Sudweeks, and at each jump her uniformed skirt came up a little higher. Matt tried to look away, but found himself entranced. Katie’s arms found their way to the sky. Matt saw her young skin and smiled. His thoughts turned to her, her chest and possibilities, the brownies she’d make for him….

Adelaide’s voice shattered his thoughts.

“Oh my God! What’s in your pants?”

Sitting at the table, Matt smiles a little more. Only 72 more to go, but all he can think about is brownies. In between the commandments, he begins writing

It is worth it.

It is worth it.
It is

Music Project: "18 and Life" by Skid Row

The Fantastically Mediocre Life of Gary

“There’s a paper jam in the copy machine again.”

The disembodied voice penetrated the cubicle wall but reached only Gary’s ears. Slowly he arises from his ergonomically made chair and exits his cluttered work area into the microcosm that is SubStandard Insurance (It’s for the people!). He goes to work on the enjambment but his mind is not in the work no it is back on a picture he happened upon on Facebook which Jake his high school friend posted and tagged from my “glory days.” This was when I had hair, luxurious locks that graced my shoulders and hid the pockmarks. I was damn hard, and all the chicks digged me and Ricky. Jake, not so much. I remember my first tape; it was Iron Maiden’s Number of the Beast. This was before Nirvana destroyed my music, before I knocked Charlotte up with our first kid. Gary, how’s that jam coming? It’s coming, sir. I’m almost done. He focuses on the task, but how can I concentrate when my life’s in the shits? I wasn’t ready to be a father at eighteen, and I’ve been here ever since, scratching a life for an ungrateful family. Why can’t you make more, Gerald? She only calls me Gerald when she’s pissed. Lately she’s been that. The kids aren’t much better. They won’t even talk to me; they’re ashamed of me, the minivan, the small house we rent out because I can’t afford better. I try talking, but they just put those damn earbuds in and tune out. Gary, I have customers waiting for estimates; could you hurry up just a teeny bit? Well Carol, this jam is pretty big. You’re going to need professional help. You are the profess… No, not anymore. I need help. Gary? Gary, why are you shaking?