Mexico City (2019)

Julene and I heard enough praise from Mexico City travelers to compel a visit.  Three days of immaculate weather, cultural and culinary discovery, and warm, welcoming people made for a pleasant experience ... Muchas Gracias, Ciudad de México.  Hasta luego!

Wedlock

He does not complain

when she drinks too much at parties.

A solemn reserve masks his displeasure.
He is far too well mannered
to provoke a scene.

While other couples quarrel
over cocktail-party etiquette,
he maintains a decisive restraint,
even as she betrays
their most intimate affairs.

He does not censor her language
with unfamiliar guests,
though she spooks the delicate among them 

with brash comedy
and wild gesticulation.

She croons to inviting men
when she finds him inattentive
and suffers aloud when he scorns
her amorous invitation.

Long after others have bid goodnight,
he coaxes her to the car
and drives them home, 

stopping along the rain-soaked freeway
so she may vomit

her memory of the evening.

He watches her beneath the streetlight,

praying for a life

they once imagined together.

In the bedroom, he rebuffs her advance,
insists she remove her soiled attire.

OK, Boss, she mutters.

You're the boss.

He draws a warm bath,
presents fresh underclothes,
and waits for her to change.


**First published in Duck Lake Journal

Conscientious Objector

The war began in adolescence:

up,

down,

up,

down,

up,

down.

Each year, the burden grew heavier:

up,

down,

up and

down.

At first, the mission was clear.

Older boys called him "Bones".

The Cullen Brothers

delighted in yanking down his shorts

before playground girls.

He would build armor:

          DO NOT MESS WITH ME!

Pickup basketball,

Little League baseball,

long afternoons on his BMX bike,

all surrendered

to the clanging of iron plates.

He memorized routines from 

The Encyclopedia

of Modern Bodybuilding.

He strapped on a weight belt

because the big men wore them.

Missing a workout

felt like desertion.

Mirrors lined every wall,

leaving nowhere to hide.

No matter how much armor he forged,

the mirror found another flaw.

Now, his enlistment

has outlasted the enemy.

The Cullens have vanished.

The laughter stopped.

Only the campaign remains.

He questions what will be gained

from another thousand bench presses,

longs to become

a conscientious objector:

up,

down,

then out for good.

Mornings, rather than suffer the gym,
he will languish on the front porch,

coffee in his fat Hemingway mug,

the cat claiming a chair beside him,

Wagner drifting thought the screen door.

Joggers file past,

their sweaty flanks flapping in protest.

He raises his mug in salute.

Tomorrow, he will report for duty.

PsyOps Theater (Desert Storm)

Dear American Soldier, are you prepared to die for a barrel of oil?
Dear Iraqi Soldier, we are a Multinational Force with overwhelming air superiority.
Would you like to be one of the cripples who are only lamented in the charity ceremonies?
We want you to know the truth! It is the actions of Saddam Hussein which have forced the world to war with Iraq.
You know you cannot win against our fearsome troops and the invincible best friend of Allah.
We have no desire to harm innocent people, but Saddam is leading you to certain death.
Put down your bombs. Demand to go home. You are weary of sand and sun and sweat on your body from senseless aggression.
Resistance is purposeless. The outcome is inevitable. Kuwait will be free from Saddam’s aggression.
You are secretly admiring the great leader, Saddam Hussein, and asking yourself, “Why am I here?”.
Your fellow soldiers along the entire front have either surrendered or were killed by our bombs.
How do you like our Arab lands where you cannot get a Kentucky Fry Big Mac to eat and you are always missing your half-naked, immoral sweetheart back home.
Save yourselves and head toward the Saudi border where you will be welcomed as a brother.
Your American president is losing allies.  He is like the stupid fox that enters into the house of the clever fox.
To seek refuge safely, remove the magazine from your weapon, raise both arms above your head and approach our forces slowly.
Your Arab allies will turn their weapons against U.S. soldiers instead of Iraqis.
If you do this you will not die.
Why be dead for your president’s dumb mistake?

Childish Things

Church bells clank and clamor,

welcoming the shuffle of the devout
ascending stone chapel steps.

As a youth, I was among them,

dutiful and wide-eyed, 

walking in the light of the redeemed
at my father's side.  

The sanctuary greeted us

with the scent

of varnished pews,

leather-bound hymnals,

heavily perfumed matrons.

The bells sang
of a warring celestial realm, 

hidden from the sinner's eye, 

where white-winged cherubs 

collide with silver-tongued devils
in a storybook crusade 

for man's eternal soul.  

The price of entry:

        our untried imagination 

        laid bare upon an altar 

        gilded with the blood sacrifice 

        frightened ancestors 

        bargained to appease 

        a jealous Divine.  

The promise of paradise

quickened our step,

held our gaze upward 

to the heavenly chorus ringing

from the bell tower.  

We received it
with unquestioning assent,

heard it spoken

in parable and psalm,

understood it as children

counting the days

until Christmas,

certain of the treasures 

awaiting god-fearing 

boys and girls. 

Believing came easy 

as skinning a knee.

**First published in In Parenthesis literary journal

Other Women

He encounters her daily, 

on the streets, the television, 

at the pool,
in bars, airports, 

laundromats and supermarkets.

Sometimes she is brunette, 

other times blonde, 

recurrently Asian, Latina 

or African-American.  

Once, she was a blind, ginger

concert pianist.

Always lively and aloof 

with an irreverent smile

and hips that swing 

to the devil's groove.  

He imagines their life together:

    days sparked 

    with high adventure, 

    rapturous nights 

    of fellowship and fucking, 

    vacations 

    on the Coast of Mexico.  

It would not be work.

She would prepare breakfast for him 

and tend to her garden 

on weekends.

She would have her own money, 

an inheritance from a birth father 

possessed of the grace to pass away 

before their engagement.

There would be few arguments 

between them,
and she would respect the artist, 

careful not to distract him 

with trivial matters 

such as house cleaning 

or automotive repair.

He would call her, Mi Dama Amante, 

and dedicate his works to her.

But for her fixation 

with ceramic lawn gnomes, 

she would be impeccable.

The meddling midget devils.

He cannot stand them

posted like sentinels about the lawn, 

scrutinizing every movement.

Even her younger sister agrees, 

the gnomes are a peculiar fetish.

The sister lives in West Hollywood, 

teaches yoga and dances professionally.

She laughs at his jokes.  

He thinks of her often.

Convinced she is adrift

without him.


**First published in Bluing the Blade, and winner of the "Bragi Poetry Award" at Tempered Runes Press.

Iyla Grace 6.0

  Iyla Grace 6.0 was released today.  My favorite feature is her growing empathy for the world outside herself.  Iyla will chastise my jaded regard for some humans with a simple, sweet charge:  "Papa, care for the world." ... I will try, Little Buddy.  Happy Birthday!