Poem for Thursday, April 29, 2010

Goddamn Papers

Big man in tan sounded off the red and
blue while Pepé was coming home
from the fields just outside of

torrid Tucson.

Big man asked Pepé for his
"goddamn papers"; Pepé reached
in his glove compartment

aggrievedly.

Third time stopped in a week, twice
by Big man. Pepé thought about
his wife's hominy stew

growing cold.

He wondered how he could pass his
citizenship test on the first try but
couldn't pass an intersection

without being stopped.

Big man eyeballed Pepé's papers, stupid
as an aimless child gazing agape at
the sun, then tossed them

through the car window.

Big man scratched his crotch, said,
"Welcome to 'merica." Pepé had lived
there for ten years, and this was

his first welcome.

Poem for Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Dry County Blues

Lonoke County, Arkansas:

where every day is a
rainy Sunday

and the bottles and cans
from Pulaski

float

down the ditches
clueless

as Baby Moses
in his basket

Poem for Sunday, April 25, 2010

The Carpenter

told me that my porch posts were bleeding
sap, and sure enough, they were.

He pointed to the sticky amber spots that
had pushed through the white Dutch Boy
like an infant through the jungle of muscles.

"Know what's causin' that?" he asked.

I shook my head, looking at his scabby, sun-
beaten hands, smelling the impending
storm.

"No, I don't."

He brushed his thumb over a knot the
size of a nickel on the opposite side of
the post, smiling.

"This knot right here," he said.

His words harmonized with a soughing
wind: inspect the wood, dry it out,
use water-based paint.

They were not majestic, but they
were honest.

I glanced at his shirt pockets, convex
and unsnapped; one contained a church
bulletin, the other a pack of cigarettes.

"People told me I should've been a
carpenter all my life," he uttered while
fumbling for a smoke.

And after that, the wind grew bold,
racing through my hair and clothes.
The charcoal clouds began to collide.

The carpenter knew he had to call it
a day, so he left with a brisk goodbye.

Crossing the street, he went inside
his securely built house.

I watched him from mine.

Poem for Saturday, April 17, 2010

Said Idi

in a country
where the price of a chicken
surpassed the price
of a human being, an ogreish
child addressed the Ugandans:

I may wear a general's uniform,

said Idi,
in English tongue, English medals,

but I am the same as you,

said Idi,
in African accent, African heart

the Ugandans cheered
in Ateso, chanted in Lusoga,
lifted their staffs
to the sun and silenced again
for the general's words:

Obote and his men have left,

said Idi,
on the cusp of celebration,

so we can now live in peace,

said Idi,
hands clean of blood at the time

but as time consumed
the next ten years, hundreds of
thousands were fed
to crocodiles while chickens
pecked at the dirt

the Ugandans bled
because the child was afraid
there were monsters
hiding
in his palatial closets:

I know when I will die,

said Idi,
breathing heavy and still,

I saw this in a dream,

said Idi,
a visionary among everything else,

but they are trying to kill me,

screamed Idi,

they are trying to kill me!

Poem for Monday, April 12, 2010

Nuremberg, 1946

before a long sleek table sat

americans soviets british french

the same hovered around

a prosecution table

cut from schwarzwald wood

during the

good old days

&

twenty-four men

each had their day to

march into the court

methodically

as they had done

throughout the

Jewish ghettos

keitel smoked his last cigarettes during recess

dönitz thought about his brief presidency

göring played god, dined on cyanide

and

so

on

Poem for Monday, April 5, 2010

Easter Sunday

While children found the last of their

pink eggs among the grass and

tree branches,

while the evening hymns droned

from the palates of old

women and men,

while mothers and wives plopped

the leftover pot roast on their

second-best china sets,

while adamant shoppers

bought next year's decorations

for fractioned prices,

while men and women sweated

in giant white rabbit suits

for the last hour,

while all

of this

happened,

a man told me

just how much

blood

the Son of God lost:

all 3.5 liters

Jesus,

I thought we had

more blood

than that

Poem for Friday, April 2, 2010

Bar Girl

cherry jello-stained tongue

34 C

particularly flirtatious