a couple old poems

For Dad,


Having seen the brown

rusted 1977 VW bus

grown over with weeds

and frowning,

saw myself today

with father's mustache

reflection in a storefront.

Moved a little,

shaved it off.


Having trouble finding mementos

in a dozen different places

(when mourning.)

Have seen my bicycle alone,

sun-lighting on a Cuban street

and was jealous.

Have seen cigarettes balanced

autonomous on a cill

sputtering cold.

Have not been a frequent smoker

but will continue to accumulate change,

spare time, and matches.

Have seen the green moss clinging

to lonely, cement, foundations and thought

it looked a hell of a lot

like the moss

clinging to the wheels,


Father's rusted 1977 VW Bus

and my small eyes carrying me

along the dark highway

like headlights, fatherless,

in a cascading bravado of glare.

_________________

It's the 12 tibetan deities”

said Andy Lopez. The guy looked past us

“look fucking sweet in the apartment” he said

And he bought the thing.



In the goodwill,

Andy told me about the spaces

in between whistles and paint strokes

“the silence creates the longing”

for voicemail conversations

of dead air

dead

because of course. Because

is no reason to cry

but makes a good

visceral reaction to bibles,

girlfriends, well wishers. Happy thoughts

taped over acid worn holes in film strips

when we hurried to cover up the mess.

The loss of capabilities.

The human tree turned to wheelchair frailty.

But that sound is gone.

We are a silence when the whistling stops

and alone with our portrait of

the deities.


“you know there are known to be strange

coincidences around these paintings”

Andy was not too close to my father

But he gave a great goddamn eulogy,

and I knew he was talking serious.

I savored that moment

when silence was replaced by conversation.


We arrived next to the painting

and parted later as the wife beater clad

wife beater waddled off

with as much culture as he could carry.



I make for the street and the door

clatters and sputters to a close,

its rickety hinges a raucous.

But that Beauty dies and leaves no sound.

Funny how it happens anyways.

_________________________________


We Study Wars on Youtube



I sat for long intervals where bright screens killed my irises,

Destroyed my eyeballs and turned my backbone into paste.

They told me it would happen in intervals

The slow ripping of my stomach when I ate the redskins.

“Them damned injuns should be shot!”

Because of fightin words and ideas I exist!

So we all sat around crying and planting irises.

“Oh my! Oh my! My fingers are shot!”

She cried, daubing them with paste

This is revolution when they said, “Redskin!”

And “Manifest Destiny!” progress in little white lies and in intervals



Time passes. Shit happens in intervals

And hundreds of little boys don’t exist

Anymore because revolution said “troop increase.” Redskins

Done cut their sweaty child fingers like topping irises

And she sews them frantically, smearing them with paste

She sits back, wipes her brow. Downs the shot.

Redskin downs another slug

Secret war begins.



I exist to be shot

in the head so I can watch my insides spatter in intervals

Of mathematic bookpressed starbucks sonfabitch paste.

The little boys that don’t exist anymore all existed

To be shot in the head. Poke out their irises.

“Who won the pennant?” “The Redskins.”


 
And who will wander with friendly eyes to trick the Redskins?

Which flattop will stumble rez trailer park gardens crunching irises?

When the liquor runs dry they ration flour. Eat in intervals

Kind of like our 3 meals, but in weeks, flour sacks. Exist

-ing. “Well, you can mix it with fat and water to make a paste.”


Momma slapped him. He said “doesn’t do a damned thing, tooth paste!”

HEYAHEYAWAHHEYATOMAHAWK Redskins! 

We all shot at boys who existed to be shot

at, praying "Blessed is this human waste," in quiet intervals

and I sat watching computer screens, burning my irises.


I was blind after that but people still screamed and shot

In the wars that exist because wars exist

Because the wars that don’t exist do so because somewhere redskins

Sit waxing stoic. Spaghetti westerns. Tonto. They eat paste.

Yet still,

No wars for stomped irises.