Other Couples Are Foreign Countries

You can visit them
like one visits Indonesia
or South Africa

or Brazil,

but you are a tourist
encountering 

the Chamber-of-Commerce's
promotional exhibit,

the Ministry of Propaganda's 

redacted adaptation.

You must venture beyond

the guarded perimeter

to experience the primal truths

of romantic coupling:

        wander stark-naked 

        into the wilderness,

        sacrifice to heathen gods,

        paint your flesh 

        with the blood

        of vanquished enemies.

All are born savage.

Some conceal it more than others,

many from themselves.

This is especially the custom
of social media mavens

who broadcast a tinsel parade 

through the capital square 

while their union rots 

at its foundation.

Each of us is on all fours

with a stranger, 

toiling for glimpses 

of the transcendent,

seizing them, at best, 

enough to prolong 

the alliance.

There is nothing to envy
but those magnificent moments
consummated
in your homeland.

**First published in Barbar Literary Magazine

Galveston, Texas (2019)

  One last gasp of summer before school begins:  Galveston, you won us over with your casual charm, Victorian architecture, friendly locals, the sun, sand and surf.  Eloise met the "big, salty ocean" this week.  Both girls were determined to prove Papa wrong -- "mermaids are real!"  I anticipate a return next summer to continue the search ;)

Eloise Jane 3.0

  Eloise "Weezy" Jane turns three-years-old today.  New words are emerging daily in her vocabulary ("poop" and "pee" remain staples).  Version 3.0 gives the best, full-body hugs –– this kid is a champion snuggler; she asks for privacy when on the potty, and wants to know where her big sister is at all times ... Happy Birthday, Lady Eloise!  

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.

He is far too well mannered
to provoke a scene.

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

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 receptive men
when she finds him inattentive
and suffers aloud when he scorns
her amorous gestures.

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,

hunched over, hands braced on her knees,

motionless in the downpour.

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 his 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.

No matter how much armor he forged,

the boy trembled underneath.

Now, his enlistment has outlasted the enemy.

The Cullens vanished,

the laughter with them.

Only the campaign remains.

He questions what will be gained

from another thousand bench presses.

He longs to declare himself

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,

Mahler drifting through 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?