Trifles and Reticence

To disannul a single trifling word,
How many fervent lines must I compose?
A seed of love, in foolishness interred,
Would take a hundred thousand to disclose!
A pittance were a hundred thousand lines
If they could free this spirit’s eloquence;
A field of seed lies dormant and repines
Beneath the dryness of my reticence!
A hundred thousand lines were not enough
To coax each pious seedling into view,
But once we’ve gathered all the fruit thereof,
I know I’ll find another line or two.
(For that in which the shattered sunlight shines
Is surely she who streaks the sky with lines.)

I Am Corban

My plea may be to take me as I am,
But not because I cleave to mortal flaw;
My vices to expunge, my faults to damn,
I’ll venture forward when your waves withdraw.
I’ve feared your eyes—not shying from reproach,
But only the reflection I would find.
This ocean path is daunting to approach,
But only dearth and darkness lie behind.
Myself to kill, myself to recreate,
Myself to lose and gain where you reside:
I’ll brave your rift—myself to consecrate—
And smile upon you from the other side.
For loving eyes must dare to rise and see
The image of the man who ought to be.

Ex Nihilio

There is an answer in your smile,
but questions die like hydra heads--
or blooming things
that spill their seeds
when picked.

If I'm your light,
your world's too dark.

But how can I deny
that nothing shines like you
when all you see is me?

You know that I deny
the nonexistence of the gleam.

So there's an answer to your smile.

Humility and vanity
can blame each other all they want.
I only see one tide of life
in cutting hands that quake to hold.
I only know that shadows flee
when you make wonders of my wondering.

Mired in Progress

Drifting, floating, yielding to the current
A steady push of ticks and fluid flashes of dim light
Opulence comes and goes as does eventfulness, usefulness
Wallowing or wading through sandy breezes of mind masturbation
A trickle of truth and a glimpse of glory fading as the sun retires
"We must live for the moment," they say, and fill our calenders to the point of bulging and explosion
Well get me a belt, suspenders or a bottle of laxatives
We are not meant to be so full of this mindlessness
There is more to be said for the calm reticence and meticulous craftiness that an idle mind and a patient nap bring
So I wallow. But mired in progress. The kind that the world cares little about.

San Joaquin Dog

Salivating, dripping in a metal bowl.

Cold, silver in the edges that corrode on the earth

An orange tree above, smells of over-ripe citrus and wet weeds

Squashed blossoms scattered by his ears drooping as his eyes see nothing

Cataracts, debilitating but enabling and even enhancing his life

His nose has gotten better; he can smell chickens

Clucking with droopy giblets flopping on corn kernels

Tasty like pig ear chew and old boat shoes

Slyly waiting, feeling the crunch of gravel beneath biped feet

A rattle of a pot with a wooden din of a moldy unwashed spoon

Salivating into puddles as the metal bowl fills

"Whoa buddy, you were hungry."

Bowl upturned and scattered kibble makes for a welcome pillow as the day fades into black.

Refrigerator Magnets

The beach island woman did a magnificent turquoise dance in my blue heart and by evening I devoured her eternal morning beauty, though Cupid burns chocolate lust and desires to wave flames all night.  I felt the fresh moonlight embrace my tongue for a sacred caress with naked hands, and music between us clouded this delicious fantasy under a gentle ocean aroma of champagne.

There is no moon--the colinas of Salina Cruz are too tall, too steep.

I am tired; tired of hills. Tired of walking. Tired of the smell of burning, of castoffs, of gutter-rubbish. Tired of junk-metal chabolas,[1] of dead-end roads.

I follow the rim of the street-lip; discreet—near-invisible in the unlit edges; Close my eyes.

Gather my jacket in close around me, pull it tight; shut it to the curb lamps, to the door-lights, the tapers in the windows—

Shut it to the voices; costermonger voices. Cantina voices. Dog voices:

Shut it to the calls for Matias Romero, for Ixtepec, for Juchitan-tan-tan. Calls of "Ven, Papacita"[2]

from the crimped putos and night walkers pussyfooting behind their drab maquillaje and jacklit posterns.

He stopped me at the corner:

A short man. A swart man; a lank, A-shirt, rag-head man. Chupado[3]:

He holds up a hand: the empty one; tatuada with gang signs: Tres Puntos.[4] Lurches:
"Help me, for the love of God." he stammers. "Me voy a matar:"[5]

He sits on his heels, rests his face on his cauama,[6] on the adobe.

I turn to pass him, pass his ratty piss-reek alley. Drunks always try to touch me, wheeze in my face, cry on my shoulder for money.

He touches my shoulder. "Talk to me, Hombre. talk. Talk! Hablame pues, por el amor de Dios!”[7]

You are a man of God, no?" Gestures up. I nod.

He blinks hard, falls back a pace— "You must talk . . . forgive me—pero tu, que sabras?[8] My sins . . . I've sinned against God, against projimo?[9] Tu sola, Virgen Santisima!"[10] Crosses himself.

I don't want to know.

"You must!" Pauses profoundly, extends his finger; "you are hombre de Dios. My sins . . . I killed a man. Two men; one was murder;" he bends over, sobs, bites his knuckles.

I cannot pass him. He has lain down in the middle of the street.

"What do I do? Tell me . . . how am I forgiven hombre de Dios? Tell me!" I prop him up.
"Save me hombre de Dios!" He tugs my hand. Begs.

I cannot save him.

"You don't understand: you didn't feel how the knife entered his neck, opened it . . . you didn't feel his sangre, his blood, how it spilled! How like a cochino!"[11] He weeps—sibilates in his throat; slavers on his bleeding knuckles—heaves, wipes.

There is blood on his shirt; he has broken the bottle somehow, cut his palms.

"And where is his money? I don't have his money! I am too tired and sick to live, too covarde[12] to kill myself."

He is screaming now (not at me)."My crime—you must talk to me—you must absolve it: you are hombre de Dios!"

Now whispering: "Por mi culpa," fist beating his chest, turning little circles;"Por mi propia culpa."[13]

He burbles incoherently; can’t hear me.
I leave him on the curb—desperate, babbling: chewing his fingers—too terrified to confess to the police, to the priest, to abreact: just suffer, self-flagellate; cut himself on the broken glass, Embriagarse[14] . . .
[1] hovels
[2] A prostitute’s come on.
[3] Drunk
[4] Lit. Three points. A gang whose symbol is three dots tattooed on the hand.
[5] I’m going to kill myself
[6] 2 liter glass beer bottle
[7] Talk to me, for the love of God!
[8] What would you know?
[9] Fellow man
[10] You only, Virgin most holy! An invocation of the Virgin Mary
[11] pig
[12] Coward(ly)
[13] Lit. for/through my own blame/fault. Part of the Catholic liturgy
[14] Inebriate himself