Hispanic sonnet, or The burbs
Back then, I was insane. At a New Year’s party
Smoked a Cuban cigar with a retired elevator
Mechanic who not a year later slashed his throat
In his backyard. His wife worked for the
Chicago Blackhawks, flashed a championship
Ring the size of a humble penthouse. Their
Porchlights from mid-century basked us in primary
Colors. Fireflies burned in oblivion. The man
Left me a pit-stained undershirt he’d worn to cheer
Da Bears. Was reading Pet Cemetery when I
Heard the news & knew thecity was an oven &
Evil convalesced in theburbs. This isn’t a
Metaphor for Hell on Earth. This isn’t a South
Texas ghost story. It’s a PSA: Retirees, we
Admire you so. If you need an ear, hugs, just ask.
Hispanic sonnet, or Invisible wire
I tell kids, I say, You don’t write to change
The world, you write to change yourself.
Occasionally I wish upon them the wasp-sting of
200 rejections. Occasionally I’m mean-spirited
As such. But after 200 nos, 200 unfortunatelys,
I’m adeptly immune to the consequences of wrong
Words for the wrong magazines. That’s all it is:
Semantics. The dance of matching your flavors with
Other suitable tastebuds. This last clause I must rephrase
Into a pertinent, politically correct message for kids.
So many people would rather play it safe.
From the comfort of my sofa, these lines land on
This page safely. If I’m being candid, I’d surmise I’ve
Played it as safe as anybody straddling an invisible wire.
Quit playin’
Tell the truth
Spit the
News
Abhor you all
Love you
Too
Break it up
Tear it
Apart
Worship long the
Figures of
Books
Dump every-
Thing &
Die
Don’t do it
Do it
Do do it
It’ll come
Worry not
Relax & chill
Sit straight
Sophisticate
Tremendous class
Howl inside
Ham on Rye in-
Side my knapsack
Cannibal Beats
Devouring poorly aged
Sheets
These lines ate 3 hours be-
Tween 3 peerless mid-June
Childhood nights on repeat
Don’t let them see you
Sweat, Papa said,
Said Richard Ford
I wanted to be a
Sportswriter until I
Met real reporters
Wished to write till
Poetry baptized me &
Nothing’s substantial any-
More, more, more
There, there, there
No there there, Miss Stein
Miss you more
My, how you lie
Why, off you go, far away
Hey, knock-knock— …
Knock-knock— …
(—play this game all goddamned day!)
Raft
Craft
Raft
Drifting
Sink
Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers
John Masefield
As read by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Is it possible poetry died then?
Cardiac arrest—stroke of midnight
Me, a babe in a league of ghouls
“Gh”: ghastly start for English words
Give it to ghosts, too
Especially those refusing to give themselves up
Craft is a raft,
In other words (a phrase my dead professor detested)
Poet, hast thee memorized poems lately?
Can thee perform thy scribblings well?
The raft is disappearing
Tugged into a horizon where the world hungers
Take it back
Poetry dies with me tonight
This city, embers watching through fog.
Dumpster Fire Press 