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Silvia Brandon Pèrez
lightning
two, three weeks ago we are
sitting together
at her son's business; she
has put up lovely legs
and is showing off her face
and body, her husband
has walked out on her after
30+ years but she copes,
she's lost a few extra pounds
and tucked loose flesh;
new hairdo, clothes, 63+
woman looks no more
than 40, I am extolling the
work, the fashion,
the ready smile, she is telling
me when I visit
Florida we'll go "de parranda"
and dance the night
at some sleazy Cuban joint,
we trade jokes,
grandbebé stories,
discuss the coming trial,
a recipe or two, a favorite
form of exercise
may 6th and on my way to court
the son calls,
those slight joint pains
have an obscene name
a cancer of the blood, a
myeloma, loss of hair,
she is too weak to speak,
the delicate tracery
of ventricles, veins, arteries
intent on keeping life,
a spring bouquet may cheer
her some, her husband
at her side now, no cure,
aggressive course
of treatment, chemo, bloated
body parts,
the plans she'd made to live
it up at last,
alone or not, the grandbebes
that we'd picked up,
"I love you, 'buela," her
son on autopilot
by his own admission, my
brave dear friend,
named after flowers, poppies
by her mother,
struck down and up and sideways,
flat
rosary beads
because one of the things
they asked
was religion, because we
told them
he was raised a catholic,
because they prey
on sentiments of guilt, because
that is how
they get you, charge you
for the privilege
of grief, the carefully made
up face,
the flyaway wisps of hair
glued
to the bluish scalp, the
rosary beads
tied around the knuckles,
as if just before
he was to meet his maker
he was praying
for another hour, for another
game
of poker or canasta, for
one more
stamp show
The newspaper
said
the girls were sold...
into white slavery, sweet russian girls
with clerk jobs, cashier jobs,
girls with illusions born of prettywoman
movies, Olgas, Tamaras,
Natalias and Elenas,
wooed by hard-drinking boyfriends
with promises of a better life
locked, beaten, drugged, raped raped raped
blood running, the blood of virgins,
new martyrs to the ruble, yen, the dollar
poderoso caballero es don dinero
which was written centuries ago
new wrinkles to an old story
investigations are
proceeding
the girls, some just to keep
the populace in check,
are dying
Dr. Argueta said in class
World History 101, all culture
was first based on slavery
on slavic bottoms, doublexrated
pogroms of the pretty but destitute
stay tuned
our correspondent on the scene
interviews Anna
and now for a word
from our sponsor
it's the real thing
the poetry police...
are gathering up all ruffians,
malingering pseudo-poets,
ranterers,
emotionally disturbed freaks
and other individuals
who offend the common morals
(and the rules of poesy).
punishments being considered:
to listen to leaves of grass in russian
endlessly,
or perhaps to memorize
all of José Angel Buesa's poetry
with subtitles,
or to mingle with the sweaty multitudes,
or to seek therapy
in 12 step groups
devoted to the study of the iambic pentameter
at midnight.
Picture Album/Old Houses
The girl had straight brown hair
worn long or in a ponytail,
she thought her ears stuck out,
spent part of her youth covering
their outline; photographs of the time
show a pretty señorita, lightly
mascaraed,
frowning uncertainly at the camera,
strict, thou-shalt-not
dance in the aisles,
fornicate before marriage.
She lived in many houses, countries,
where in alternate lifestreams the stepfather
was affectionate but not a lecher,
the mother hugged frequently and lovingly,
not like a wooden block,
real memories carefully set aside
in ginghamed cupboards
safe from prying eyes, easy remembering,
cumbersome feeling.
She once lived in a great mansion
on the jersey shore,
boot camp, young husband, hushed snow,
wraparound porch, Victorian, with a green
swing,
old movies where folks talked about dreams,
hopes, and the music played,
but it was winter, and it was always cold;
there is a picture of her in the swing,
shivering in a blue peacoat,
the snow perennial, an unshakeable blanket,
Spring Lake behind, a frozen wasteland.
Ancient trees, a fertile girdle,
encircled the last of the houses,
her favorite, trees an emerald cathedral,
silent prayer at end of day
she was in love with the house
out of love with the man
endless meals cooked for the miracle
Norman Rockwell family
in the window, father-knows-best,
easier than screams and cursing
the floors were tongue-and-groove, mahogany,
older than either of them or both
well sanded floors remained
when they had left the house,
the marriage, a stray picture left behind
to celebrate the holidays,
old houses and the rancid smell
of wasted days.
And poetry forbidden as a
vice
they praised my brilliance
the power of my words
my naiveté, my style
they praised it all, called me eccentric
laughed at my drunken singing
enjoyed my witty repartée
and then it changed, the luck of the draw
the craps game turned around
and now it is visiting hours from five
to eight
and only two by two allowed
I hide the pills below my tongue
I play the drooling game so well
the doctor frowns or smiles each day
he plays a game with secret rules
from two to four it's time to share
and poetry forbidden as a vice
forbidden as a throwback to those times
of cocktail parties and the muse
a friend to all - I wonder if I have enough
to end the penance, end the prison term
I wonder if I have enough...
street peddler
Bernstein wrote scathingly about
the poetry of stores and slick
commercial enterprise
a witty entertaining piece
about the farce of Poetry Month
my local Barnes and Noble on this 16th
day of May, poetry month now safely past,
has put all poets in one shelf, a small
one
way in back, across from Romance, right
next to Mysteries (four shelves), some
easy
chairs for easier reading (of mysteries
and the like) - there are no poets on
bestseller shelves or among recommended
reading, you can peruse millionaires
and their mind set (highly regarded) or
who done
what to whom or barley soup for shit-faced
waiters;
there is no call for poets or their songs
I think I'll rent a mesa de aluminio
six or twelve bucks on Greenwich Avenue
next to the man from Ghana who sells
'Guccis' for ten dollars; I'll use abuela's
lace mantel to cover all the surfaces
and hawk
my wares: ¡poemas frescos,
seis por tres pesos!
after all, my poems have no saturated
fat,
are made strictly with virgin olive oil,
first
pressing, (lowers cholesterol, you know,
ask
tía Conchita), some may raise blood
pressure
but you can always turn the page, or rip
it out
if it offends, and feed it to the goat
next time
you visit the Bronx Zoo with tías
and sobrinos.
I wonder if I'll need a peddler's license...
An ad for the personals
One slightly used—scrap that:
one well-used carbon-based unit,
female, eyes two, nose one,
one mouth with teeth, organic smile,
slight yellow hue, hair, once dark,
sprinkled with white, with gray,
with wisps and flying strands,
flying parts and thoughts,
could we rewind, start over,
buy some new tape, edit the gray,
the wrinkles, the hard-earned
bitterness, the leathery feet.
Send me a picture. Ah, well.
I sometimes live here, in my skin,
well-worn, some extra poundage to attest
to myriad children and some self
abuse, sometimes live elsewhere,
far away from self, another planet
almost, tango, anyone?
On good days sometimes
I smile and light the room,
they say, though maybe
with a lesser wattage than before.
On far too many days, of late,
I live in partial darkness that persists
despite relentless fighting of the demons.
It's been a weekend and one day
since last I smiled or laughed
or slept much; add to the picture
dark circles taking up
the surface area of the face,
below the eyes, engulfing eyes
and face and days. Darkness abounds.
Somewhere there is a moral to all this
which I have lost, somewhere if not a
rainbow
there is light or reason, or at least
e equals mc squared; somewhere
one and one equals joy,
a glass of friendship shared,
a Bach cantata, notes
embracing in the mist.
Forget this ad and let me live
another day in darkness
or in light, let me again
smile at a piano tripping
lightly over emotion held
in la sol do or si bemol.
Somewhere as Albert
has so lucidly explained,
time is a fiction,
well-played out
for our amusement.
I'll take the check,
tip the mozo,
appreciate your patience.
Lights out.
The Deposition
rich mahogany polished to a high gloss
as are the shoes of every lawyer in the
room
freshly photocopied and plugged in
to play pin the tail on the donkey,
the small Greek worker,
sporting a dark blue polyester suit
and an insurmountable language barrier
all fifteen of the counsellors wear cuts
of the finest cloth, dark blue and gray,
the women skirts and stockings,
each one painstakingly cloned
from one model-lawyer bred
in an ivy-league test tube
far from this Newark deposition
pecking away at my keyboard
I yawn and wonder once again
should I have studied Greek
They found her walking
along the highway...
barefoot
talking to Shakespeare and García
Lorca
and arguing with her husband
about the ironing of shirts
sacrificial mother
impeccable lawyer
blameless citizen
barefoot, along Route 3
no brassiere, no slip
arguing loudly about Lear,
Ophelia,
One Hundred Years of Solitude
her creativity as a poet
become just so many home-baked cookies
and the philosophical division
of undershirts and undershorts
no centerfold
ah, I fear the image
..created
by your mind
..your need
..your fantasy
..I am but
flesh and blood
..no wisp
of a creature
..no ethereal
creation
..but woman
..force of
nature,
..elemental
..no mannequin,
no centerfold
..but real,
and breathing
..subject
to the moods of the day
..the rages
of the hour
..the ravages
of time
..virgin
and whore
..young girl
and crone...
..a thousand
faces have I
..and some
may show
,,time's
passing
..the births
of children
..the pain
of life
..and broken-heartedness
..the hair,
once dark and full of lustre
..now gray
..the girlish
silhouette long gone
..yet girl
I am as well
..within,
where age is but a lie
..a mass
illusion)
..put me not
on a pedestal
..but with
the ancient symbols
..of life,
and death
..I am the
oldest planet
..and the
newest star
Yo quiero cuando
me muera,
sin patria, pero sin amo,
tener en mi tumba un ramo
de flores, y una bandera.
José Marti
Chimera
I walked down polished streets
looking for signs,
directions,
looking for the way home;
home a distant memory,
a bittersweet taste
a dying chimera in my brain
home a fantasy
which makes the wine taste bitter
and the bread smell sour
I saw the royal palm tree in my dreams
and smelt the honeysuckle blossom
in late evening
sweet sirens seeking my demise
and beckoning me home
to a sunken ship
an underground disaster
which lures me yet
but yet again I stay
in fabled land, in exile
a refugee from pain
into pain deepest yet
and this dark home
which sheltered me
which sought to conquer me
to kill my spirit
to make me one of many
a carbon copy of all women
idealized, deodorized, homogenized,
which pressed my spirit
in its jaws of iron
while outwardly smiling welcome
this plastic empire
where everything is sold
and everything its price will have
by sundown
where lies are king
and golden gods bed whores
this land of alabaster bunnies
parading breasts and butts
to sell the latest car
or dream or love
this land of instant food
and fake certification
and cyberlove
more tempting than the whore of babylon
is dying, dying
and greed the willing acolyte
of haste, and waste, and apathy
and boredom and ennui bedmates
of instant gratification
and I, awake at last
having been mauled and hemmed
having seen dreams die by the side of
the road
ideals shot down by fast-tongued lawyers
await the final consummation of the days
no home for me
no home alas but death
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