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Archive for September, 2008

Jake's Story

September 5th, 2008 No comments

"Tromp" is a new word
I'm introducing to the English language.
It refers to the puckering lips
of one in love
as he kisses his beloved hello or...
good-bye.
The putting together of the "soft"
of the mouth
of a child degusting
the sour
of his lemon ice cream.
The sad pout of one emotionally

overtaken

by intense feelings of loss, betrayal,
of heartache.

Jake was born to this world with a
swollen red tromp on his
swollen face. In fact, he was
swollen
all over and covered in amniotic fluid
and his own

phlegm.
Thus new and raw, a throbbing little cuteness,
his lips put together and warm

and inflamed

as they were, he laid his first kiss upon those
tender
of his happy, sobbing mom.

"For the longest time,"
now grown he said to me one starry night,
as we sat together atop the flatroof,
"I believed I had come to this world in
a space capsule, from a far-away planet."
Statements like these made

me

wonder as to his
true
planetary origin.
"My sister convinced me she had herself.
Of course, I wanted to be an

extraterrestrial

too. I had to be, being her brother
and all."

I

chuckled only to
stop short

a second

later,
choking up at my own

sudden

realization

of his sister's inspired understanding.
Placental sacs are

like space capsules -- you see.

But whether he descended from the
skies
one chilly night
has absolutely no bearing on the fact that

regardless

he was extruded out his
capsular surroundings

tromp first.

His salient gesture, whether tied to

his frightened frustration

quiet anger

introspective rumination or

mocking amusement was his

tromp.

If
you saw him in the subway
you'd judge him handsome with
his proud airs and
hairs disheveled
and inevitably focus on

the fullness

the peachy-cherriness of his

incarnadined

tromp.
It wasn't his
impish wink or nod
that would make him

irresistible

to the ladies, whether married or not
or his princely, respectful
poise toward the

chattery

gentlemen (too afraid of leaving him alone
to their wives or sisters or perhaps too
possessive
themselves of his
charismatic tromp);

it was his

tromp.

You can imagine what
was hushed
around in
girl circles about his

kissable

tromp.

Gigglingly silenced, several found

blush
run not to cheeks but to their

pale lips

now rubicund
puckered out in readiness

oh his full-mouthed

tromp.

 

 

*In this poem I attempt to describe me from a third person's point of view, in the manner of a little story. I pushed my luck with the interpretation and connotation of the word "tromp," and I'm hoping that by the end the meaning has not deteriorated to something my friend Marcel would describe as "creepy."

Categories: Miscellaneous, Poetry

Quiet Joys

September 4th, 2008 No comments

There's a quiet joy I think
to my father's jokes that are 
funny-but-not-really. I
don't talk
when he tells them, and I put 
a face of one not
too moved for laughter.
There's a quiet joy I think
most people miss
walking down the broken sidewalk
of my conifer forest. Along the road
there are anise plants
so completely ordinary with
their two white petals
in an axis. I
roll one bulb between my fingers
and take in a sweetness that
cannot be forgotten. 
There's a quiet joy to my stomping
along the path to my house 
impeded by roots and tiny
nuts that bulge into my soul
through the soles of my shoes.
There's a quiet joy to these things,
till you twist an ankle.

 

*I'm more like my father than I'm willing to admit, and I did twist an ankle that hurt quite a bit for a few weeks.

Categories: Nature, Poetry

Laid to Rest

September 2nd, 2008 No comments

My sweet:
All matters have been
Deliberately entombed
and it's a sealed deal.
We must not raise the dead.
Not like any of our best conjuring
could do the trick.
My heart,
if we buried a catatonic comatose
than a legitimate corpse
it'll awaken to a silken bed
and a comfortable pillow.
Quickly suffocated into eternal sleep
Would that it not manifest
through its wooden coffin,
like a ghost
or work through the peat
(and break packed dirt)
like a zombie.
Yes, baby,
let us the skeletal remains
remain
or won't we come face to face
with Yorick. (And worms.)

*After a relationship has ended, resuscitating it can be like opening a can of worms.

Categories: Love, Poetry

Red Ant Queens

September 1st, 2008 2 comments

Mid Julys on alternate years
sometimes bring swarms of queen ants
out of their nests
for mating. It is the rainy season
in Guadalajara.
They are thumb-proportioned, 
devoid of wings
but with powerful mandibles
nail-sized. Thick bristles stick out 
of their backs
right behind the two black pearls
they have for eyes.
These are red ant queens, mind
that live under trees or moss or 
football fields
and are very scary. They
command armies of workers
that live to feed them. They are 
strong at their mouths 
and could surely cut
through flesh and arteries
and bone to the utter detachment 
of a pinky finger.
We eat them with tortillas, 
lightly roasted.

 

*I was seeking to build a particular description with a surprise ending, while commenting on a larger scale about our own species.

Categories: Guadalajara, Mexico, Nature, Poetry