Day 4

 it’s like all those summers

when you worked as a laborer for the masonry

company. your job the boss man said

between puffs of his cigarette, his beer belly pushing

you out of the shade, is to make sure the brick layers

never have to stop laying. bricks, mortar, water, trowels,

scaffolding all needed to be within reach of their

cracked hands. it’s the same

 

now, her bloated and scarred belly keeping her in bed, a ball

of light gnawing on her cracked nipples. medicine, sweets,

creams, towels, pads, pumps all ready and waiting

so that she doesn’t have to stop lying, healing,

pouring herself out. nobody’s

paying you to stand around and watch. maybe it’s good

 

you don’t have time to think about the future. no more

impulsive romps around the globe. no more Saturday nights

spilling wine into your poetry journal. you’ll fight

 

the urge to use your first Father’s Day hardware store

gift card to buy a nail gun to Phineas Gage yourself

into drooling through some nine-to-five future.

it’s for her. it’s for him.

 

even though there’s no union for new dads

that guarantees lunch breaks and fair wages,

I’d take this job over any other.

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador -- May, 2022)

I wrote this poem when the wee baby Ryan was just 4 days old. It expresses a mix of emotions, from the duty to the sacrifice to the joy of being a parent. It was strange how those first days reminded me on being a laborer (considering it was my wife who went through labor in this case). This poem is very honest, but just a bit too weird, I feel, to use for more official publications. Please just don't ever buy me any Home Depot gift cards. 

Puyo

 

aquí, la vida vibra en el aire

            entre las palmeras y el relámpago.

tengo una prueba de su fertilidad

            llorando en su cuna ahora mismo. debería

 

irme. hay tanto que hacer. no

puedo. necesito hundirme en el barro

            hasta mis nalgas, hasta que

            las algas estallen de mi

 

            pecho. soy un hongo. solamente

pregúntaselo a mi mami. merezco estar

donde prospera la putrefacción porque

            siempre preferiré

 

el pudor mohoso y calor salvaje

al pavor dorado, y ninguna

cantidad de carros y casas cambiará eso.

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador – Junio, 2022)

Puyo, una ciudad en la selva, fue la primera ciudad donde viví en Ecuador. Fui cuando tenía 18 años para trabajar en un lugar que se llama Paseo los Monos, y he visitado un número de veces desde entonces. Hay algo mágico en el aire de la selva que me energiza y me tranquiliza al mismo tiempo. Es mi sueño comprar un terreno por ahí para construir una cabaña donde puedo ir para escribir y pasar tiempo en la naturaleza con mi familia.

Mi Cuenquita

 no lloro por ti, mi cuenquita; solamente estoy

            lagrimando por el humo en mis ojos, por

 

ese gas tóxico que se llama esperanza, que sale

como cenizas del Sangay de tus buses, esas células

            hipóxicas en las venas de la aldea. eres

 

hora pico. eres la ciudad que nunca se despierta.

sonámbulas por corredores de adoquines como las escamas

            de un dragón de papel. tus muros

 

            sangran arte y grafiti. en los mejores días, soy

tus tres ríos más famosos: café, Zhumir y lágrimas.

¿cómo puedes llover y brillar tanto

            al mismo tiempo? me preguntan. solamente tú

 

me entiendes. con tus garras calcificadas, te

arrancas hacia el futuro. en tu cima,

            coronado por las nubes, lloras

            hacia el abismo debajo.

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador – Julio, 2022)

Me voy a mudar a los EEUU este fin de semana. Por eso, quise compartir este poema en que intenté capturar mis sentimientos por Cuenca, una ciudad donde pensaba que iba a vivir por el resto de mi vida –  el arte, las montañas y los ríos. También debería decir que esta fue mi experiencia y mis pensamientos. No quiero decir como es ser cuencano o como es vivir ahí para todos porque solamente sé mis propias experiencias.

 

yo soy la cebolla

 yo soy la cebolla

la tierra me entierra solita

amarga   soy la cebolla

las chicas lloran los hombres

lloran   mi alma ascienda hacia el cielo

            botan mi alma asombrosa   quieren

mi piel   mi carne   mi sabor de azufre   soy

            la cebolla con barro

en mis colmillos   soy la cebolla

píquenme ásenme cómanme

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador – Marzo, 2021)

Las personas somos complicadas. ¿Qué más puedo decir?

la miel de la serpiente

 la miel de la serpiente

            corre por las venas del glotón

            como lava por la pendiente de los restos de la montaña

rojo, grita el cielo.

gris, susurra el suelo

                        el viento llora en los oídos

            de la piedra caída

responde con el silencio frenético

            de una tormenta perdida en el horizonte

había dos árboles justo ahí en el fondo

            como los últimos pelos de la cima calva

las cenizas se caen en el valle

todo el mundo está quieto.

la dulzura de la araña

            congela el estomago del ascético

            como la primera luna del invierno

su rostro de fría tierra, estoica, eléctrica

chilla por el pánico y pandemonio

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador – Octubre, 2020)

Este poema también es uno rechazado de Entre el Relámpago y el Trueno. El pensamiento aquí es del peligro en los extremos. ¿Puedes encontrar el paquete de sonido aquí?

 

como el veneno de la belladona

 como el veneno de la belladona

las estrellas vuelan en su remolino de luz

no hay nada que viene en una botella

            más fuerte que el bello cielo de medianoche

bajo los sellos divinos en la atmósfera

            el rey agrio y presumido

            se hunde en las huellas del oso

y ella, la noche silenciosa

            rellena el alma con ambrosia del amor

                        de los que lloran al vacío en la oscuridad

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador – Enero, 2020)

Una vez que terminé con En la Mirada de la Selva, que voy a publicar en el siguiente año, pensé en empezar un proyecto nuevo, Entre el Relámpago y el Trueno. La idea aquí es escribir muchísimos poemas cortos inspirados más por las montañas y la poesía de taoístas como Han Shan. Por el estilo, cada poema usa una forma que se llama “ramage” en que hay un “paquete de sonido” como AR, IP, EF en cada línea. En este poema, el sonido es ELL (o EY).

Escamas

 Miles de escamas

            como escudos de cobre,

¿qué protegen?

 

Con tus cuchillos de carne,

            te ves un guerrero.

 

Con tus plumas terrestres,

            vuelas por el suelo esponjoso

de la selva.

 

En tu traje de garros,

            la muerte baile sobre tu lengua.

 

Tu armadura macabra

            guarda el espíritu de un sabio.

 

Tela de diamantes,

            hay belleza en tu deber terrible.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador – Mayo, 2020)

Otro poema rechazado de En la Mirada de la Selva, este poema trata de la balanza entre la belleza y la muerte, las apariencias y las esencias.

Aguas del Espejismo

 "Diógenes dijo que la riqueza es el vómito de Fortuna."

-Stobaeus

 

Construimos nuestras ciudades en los fondos

de lagos turbios,

lagos nublados con pudrición

perfumada en oro.

 

Nuestros pulmones se llenan lentamente

            con el líquido cristal

 sin darnos cuenta

            que estamos encadenados

a las anclas de esa sociedad.

 

Con cada posesión, cada declaración de moda,

cada risa falsa

para obtener el cariño de una dama hermosa,

la cuerda se acorta.

 

¡Libérate!

 

Deshazte de la cadena

y súbete a la superficie.

 

No tengas miedo de los tiburones

en sus trajes de seda letal;

la pena de morir sin haber vivido

es peor que sus dientes arrancando tu carne.

 

Respira el aire fresco.

Siente la arena bajo los pies.

Mira tu cara reflejada por el agua

encima de la visión torcida de la villa acuática.

Broncéate como un dios griego en el sol

y cuando extrañes las comodidades del lago,

saca la lengua,

deja que las gotas de lluvia aplaquen tu sed.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador – Noviembre, 2017)

Para mejorar mis habilidades en español, decidí escribir algunos poemas en el idioma. Resulta que mi estilo es diferente en una manera que me gusta. Por eso, creé una libreta que se llama En la Mirada de la Selva inspirada por mi tiempo en Puyo que voy a publicar en el siguiente año con los ingresos de mi novela (En las Manos de Satanás). Este es un poema que me gusta pero que no llegó al estándar para incluirse en la colección. Trata de los peligros de necesitar cosas innecesarias y como podemos escapar de la trampa.

Dear Proletariat,

We’re sorry to hear about your recent

experiences with our services, which you’ve found unsatisfactory.

As we work on a long-term solution,

please note that we’ve left refreshments on the table

in the breakroom. Hopefully, these small bags

of pretzels will help you forget that you don’t make enough

to feed your children. In your e-mail (which has been received

and read with care), you said that wages

have stagnated while rent, gas, and food

prices have skyrocketed. in this regard,

it’s important to remember that,

here, we are a family, and sometimes

family members have to make sacrifices

so that investors and shareholders

can afford their summer homes in Mykonos.

Remember, they have children, too. We

appreciate your comprehension and sympathy in this matter.

As a sign of mutual understanding, we will be awarding

all of our long-term members (ten plus year of uninterrupted

membership) with virtual badges acknowledging the pay cuts

you’ve made. Feel free to share these on your social media

with the hashtag: ForTheGoodoftheEconomy. Finally,

we remind you that the use of bathrooms during work hours,

excluding your five-minute bathroom breaks for shifts of

eight or more hours, along with the sharing

of corporate emails on Facebook and Twitter,

is strictly forbidden.

-MGMT

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador -- March, 2022)

Soon, I will be moving back to the US to finish my chemistry degree and to get a "real job". This encapsulates my thoughts on that. 

To The Mosquito Lurking in my Office

 i hope you try to suck

a potato thinking it’s human flesh

only fill yourself with starch

 

i hope you bite someone addicted to fast food

and get high cholesterol

from their blood

 

i hope you choke

on a scab

 

i hope you get closed

in my desk drawer

and starve to death

 

i hope you find the perfect mate,

fill with eggs,

and die in a desert before you find

a puddle to leave your awful offspring in.

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador -- February, 2022)

Even as a strict vegan, I stand by this poem.

Guayaquil

 it’s not the heat;

it’s not even the humidity;

it’s the stillness. the air

clings. sticky. it’s like

the seven-day forecast called

for hot molasses. but

 

that’s how things are

in my life: the tar pits, moving

just enough not to sink

but without going

anywhere.

*

I can’t even

run

away from my problems

with these

shin splints

and the chafing

between my legs.

***

(Guayaquil, Ecuador -- December, 2021)

At the end of 2021, we learned my wife was pregnant. We decided to move to Guayaquil so that we could be closer to my wife's family during the pregnancy and first months of our baby's life. I'm from Minnesota, which can get hot and humid, but the hottest, most humid day in Minnesota is like an average day here. It's was a perfect metaphor for my life at the time as I was trying to just drag on for the next 6 or so months until things really started to happen. 

Written

 one billionth of one billionth of a second to tell it

all. the first collisions of particles, waves

too small to be solid, the splashes of ripples

containing the Universe’s plasmatic fury held the blueprints

 

for each and every night sky. like a game

of marbles for the destiny of everything – all existence at this point

no bigger than the lint in the pocket of a speck of dust – we

were scattered: aminos, cells, tadpoles, apes, shot across time

 

and space. the massacres, the battlefields swampy with the rotten

secretions of countless soldiers, and the starving masses

ubiquitous with our greed were painted into the laws

of physics like a prophecy drawn in blood on the walls

 

of a cave. that first blind and brilliant flash projected

your birth, love, successes, failures, and death

into the cold void like a film on a tepid, pale screen. in the rush

 

of energy, yet unbound from time, all thoughts, perceptions,

dreams, fantasies, artworks, fictions, and delusion

existed, real as a stone in the palm of your hand.

 

it was a dirge, the bang, a tragic chorus

foretelling and celebrating how it will end,

when the smallest particles, once more nothing

but waves cutting through the fabric faster

than space can form around them and reality

goes silent. and since

 

the first cause, nothing has changed.

nothing has changed. nothing can change. nothing.

it was all already written.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- October, 2021)

Follow me down this rabbit hole for a moment. Whether or not we know all of the laws of physics, most people would agree that there's a set of principles that all matter, energy, time, etc. follow, including the movement of electrons in the synapses of our neurons which are correlated (NOTE that I am not advocating for a causal relationship, but a strict correlation) to mental activity. By that logic, from the moment of the very first "cause" which is the Big Bang for the purposes of this poem, everything has been set out on an unchangeable track. In my opinion, this doesn't paint a pretty picture for the prospect of free will, but who cares? Free will is overrated anyways.  

A Poem

 a poem is a great place

to rest your eyes

 

as your mind

            wanders.

 

the words and sounds

are background

 

            music

as you solve life’s problems.

 

what was the rhyme scheme?

what were the symbols, the hidden

meanings

in the   repetitions?

 

who knows? what

was the poem even about?

 

who cares?

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- September, 2021)

Sometimes while I'm reading a poem, I'll zone out almost in a state of meditation. That reflective state, in my opinion, can sometimes be just as important as reading a great poem. Just don't do this while you're reading one of my poems.

The Rise of Consciousness

 how can molecules, so resolute

in their purpose,

so confident, so sure

of themselves, so

pure and free in the acceptance

of their fate, so trusting

 

in the infallible mechanisms

of the Universe, come together

 

to make a stumbling,

stammering

idiot

like me?

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- October, 2021)

Another poem where I'm using my mind to think about my mind. This time, it's to wonder about how molecules can come together to create a mind and all of the mental attributes it contains when the molecules themselves can't think.

The River Today

 the river

today

copper

 

the current

electric

 

live

wire

 

energy flow

from

mountain

 

to ocean

to fully

charged

life

to rebirth

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- June, 2021)

Whether it's been in Cuenca or Minneapolis, I've pretty much always lived near a river. That must explain why they come up so much in my poetry.

Mind

 The most mysterious place in the Universe,

but how can I explore a mind that doesn’t

exist in space? The source of all fear, but I

am the haunted house: the warped floorboards,

the portal where demons come and go, the screams

 

of the innocent. Is there no exit? Charon

is the breath. The eyes turned inward,

the gold coins, the cost to see Hell from the perspective

of the flames. I am the Styx, Hades, Persephone,

Orpheus and Eurydice. Most of all I am

Tantalus, Sisyphus, an apple just out of reach,

the endless task, the torture.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- May, 2021)

The thought that I am my mind and my mind is me, yet I should be able to control my mind as if I were a separate entity makes my head hurt. 

The First Rays of Light

 eventually, I’m going

to get my head

so far

 

up my own ass

that it comes out

            the other side.

I must

 

be close. I’ve been

            marching

through my own

shit

for so long: sludge

 

and half-digested

truths and hot

            soupy

screeds. trudging.

 

is that daylight

I see or has

            my mouth

just swallowed

a star?

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- June, 2021)

A reminder not to take myself too seriously. 

Motor

 and if I don’t know every equation

            and trick and formula, no grad school

            will ever accept me. I’ll fail,

            and everyone will laugh,

so I read and reread each chapter

            gorging on each practice problem I can find.

 

and if I don’t watch the sun rise through the trees

            of the running trail every morning, every

            morning, every morning, I’ll stop

            short in the marathon. I’ll fail,

            and everyone will stare,

so with blisters and swollen ankles and steam

            rolling off my head, I run without excuses.

 

and if I don’t write every day and revise and rewrite

            and read fifty books a year, no matter how boring,

            no matter how long, nobody

            will publish me. I’ll fail,

            and everyone will yawn,

so I mindlessly fill my journals and notebooks and

            journals and notebooks with poems

            and stories that aren’t worth

            the graphite that they’re scratched out of.

 

and if I don’t keep my apartment healthy and my diet

            spotless and if my discipline slips and if I

            need a day off, my molasses bed will suck me in,

            and I’ll lose another five years to sweet, sticky

            depression. I’ll fail,

            and everyone will feel bad for me,

so I’m up at four, training and working and chopping

            veggies and studying and reading and writing

            and planning and stressing and fighting

            and moving. everything to stop

            my restless motor from blowing up.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- May, 2021)

This poem is a reflection on my long and complicated relationship with stress and anxiety. On the one hand, I'm constantly trying to move towards a lifestyle where I can limit the amount of stress and anxiety I feel (I don't think it'll ever go away completely, but there are things that help). On the other hand, that same anxiety, stress, and fear of failure are what have motivated me towards many of my biggest achievements. 

Avocado

 green meat; Lorca’s

in love. a prime

athlete: great for but

a moment. greaser

in a leather jacket,

heart of stone. costs

extra. who cares?

***
(Cuenca, Ecuador -- April, 2021)

I'm of the opinion that you can't call yourself a vegan poet until you've written an ode to the (anything but) humble avocado. 

Some Thoughts I'll Probably Change my Mind about Later

 don’t waste your time with boring books, separating

the iambs from the trochees,

            separating the fire from the art.

there’s no time to analyze all of the pronouns

and conjunctions and the deeper

meaning behind an indifferent, indefinite

article or an oddly placed

enjambment. don’t be so damn disciplined.

 

don’t waste your life aligning the seconds

            in rank and file like indistinguishable

            soldiers   marching to their death,

            in the gym or at a desk or in traffic,

and most of all   don’t take

 

yourself so seriously. seriously,

nobody cares. your silly poems

won’t change the world.

nobody reads anymore anyways, but life

 

is poetry, the greatest poetry, and poetry is free

            and fun and evolving and feeling

            and fiery spontaneity, so stay awake all night

 

weeping about that awkward moment from the seventh grade;

dance barefoot in the kitchen while dinner bubbles over,

raging on the burners; lay in bed for weeks

in your crusty underwear; fill folder after folder with rejection letters.

what does it matter? everyone is too busy with their own

 

nonsense to judge you. be original for breakfast

and gorge on sweet clichés for dessert. life’s a garden;

dig it. sign up for races you know you won’t finish;

go on adventures without plans to make it back;

maybe you’ll surprise yourself. you probably

 

won’t, though. this way, you will never overcome your-

self or life, and you will never become

the human equivalent of kale. enlightened.

tranquil. too cool for school or emotions or reactions

 

like boulder in the ass-crack

of some far off valley that’s only seen one view in a billion years,

like a mass-produced Buddha statue

buried in the wreckage of an earthquake.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- March, 2021)

I really, really wanted to like this poem. It's so close, but something just feels slightly off to me. Maybe it's too preachy or over the top. I was so close to including this on my list of poems that I plan on publishing in journals and/or a poetry collection some day. 

River

 some people are lakes,

seeking stillness, seeking

rest, finding clarity as the suspended muck settles

easily at the bottom.

 

others are swamps or mangroves

nurturing insatiable, ravenous, vibrant

life from their musky bosom.

 

most are the ocean, spread beyond the horizon,

dancing under the moon in salty, orgiastic

simplicity.

 

I, like the rest, am a river; my peace in non-stop

movement, running wherever gravity wills,

clawing scars in mountains, scraping

vanes and viaducts through deserts and canyons,

leaving green hope in my path,

 

and when I find myself in that endless ocean,

I’ll evaporate and return to the snowy peaks

to do it all again.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- April, 2021)

I've always hated going to thee beach because just sitting on the sand while my anxieties pick away at me isn't relaxing. What is relaxing for me, however, is open water swimming, hiking, and running. For me, I need to be moving with my blood flowing.

A Morbid Meditation

 look down at the pallid           rotten

            flesh

jack-o-lantern in mid-November

 

the skin of the face falling away

            from the cold

            lifeless bone    the worms

in the eye sockets

 

that is you

that was you

 

you’re gone     no more

 

a memory slipping

through the tear ducts

            silent tongue

of flame in the hearts of a few

 

was it worth it?

the stress about money

            for clothes and cars

            and knick-knacks and bobbles

passion            cash

 

the lucky few who can achieve both

all roads end here

            there never was any other destination

 

so

look down at yourself

            the unrecognizable puddle of

sinew and sludge and bone and maggots

 

what would change

            if you had to do it all again?

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- January, 2021)

Memento mori, etc. etc. etc. 

A Love Letter to the Delivery Man

 I order delivery once a week:

French fries   falafel   veggie burgers

 

the act has become somewhat romanticized

in my mind: cozy pajamas   overflowing

cup of blood red wine

exorbitant      greasy food that warms and fills the soul

I’d like to do it more    really

 

                        I can’t:

digital disappointment from the rectangular eyes

of my scale    the weeping zeros

sweeping across by bank account

the gaze of the retiree in the apartment upstairs

            certainly judging me from above

as I have my sordid rendezvous with the balding

forty-something-to-be-honest-I-didn’t-really-see-him-

beyond-the-steaming-gluttonous-styrofoam-containers

delivery man

 

judgement

judgement and guilt stand between me and the erotic

            and often    exotic

salty pleasure caressed by the loving tip of my tongue

            juices between my ravenous teeth

            the gentle slip down my throat penetrating

            my waiting and supple stomach

 

they say I can’t blame Catholic school for my neuroses

            and foibles and fetishes

but five-thousand years ago some woman

ate an apple and now I can’t enjoy a simple treat without the entire

weight of some carpenter’s cross and millions of years

of earthly sin and shortcomings spoiling my Goddamn appetite

 

so   in short  

       in spite of my innocent cravings

human all too human

       in light of the necessity of sin for salvation

       in contradiction to my long-lost beliefs

I’ll bury my lust

in the blandness of beans    flagellate myself

with salads and tofu

and if I come to find the simple pleasure in that

            I’ll castigate myself for that too

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- February, 2021)

I'm one of those people who turn to junk food to cope with stress. Then, I feel more stressed and guilty for wasting money on unhealthy food. This stress makes me eat even more junk food. 

and when the house

 and when the house becomes too small

to breathe, the river weeps

with algae tears, and sun-

light dims to purple whispers, then is none,

I’ll surrender

to the unbroken beat;

and when the mountain makes me small

and weak, the lake’s abuzz with overwhelming won-

der, gleefully, the fields flame and sway

with magnificence that

bewilders me, I’ll melt with time,

with moments that confuse

the cause with effect; see the hurricane’s

fierce song like flowers’ rhythmic pollen tune;

remember that when life

becomes too pain-

ful, running hurts my lungs, and sitting dulls my soul, to listen

to the moon until my heart is full.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- February, 2021)

This is another attempt at doing a deconstructed sonnet. I like the imagery and the idea here. Plus, there are fewer awkward-sounding lines than in "Burning Blood" (the other deconstructed sonnet I put on the blog earlier).

Minnesota

 tater tot hotdish

ground beef this          ground beef that

there’s a dry hunk of meat in the slow cooker

 

it doesn’t matter to me

I worked up an appetite at football

 

I wonder if anyone has any extra tickets

            for the Twins game

 

are ya gonna kiss me or what?

            my first love asked

            as we waited in the rain

            for our parents to come pick us up

            from the movie theater

I guess she found the moment romantic

 

the windows fogged

            from my heavy breaths

the door wouldn’t open

            blocked by iced-over snowbank

 

I hope the bus gets here soon

it’s gotta be twenty below

            with the wind chill

 

it’s too muggy

Mom says

            to go to Valley Fair

 

my pants are stained and torn,

            but the ump called me safe at second

you shoulda seen it! it was sweet!

 

my feet itch

            from the snow that leaked into my shoes

            on the slippery walk home from basketball practice

 

when will Grandpa be back with more gas for the boat?

I want to ski one more time before the loons

come back, before the campfire

            before laughing at my drunk uncle’s lude comments

 

I need to head in     the mosquitos are eating me up

 

Minnesota isn’t a place    it’s a time

 

when I’d sit on a branch

            in an auburn oak in the Mississippi’s ravine

watching foam and branches

and plastic bags meander on the slow current

 

they don’t sell tickets to that state

            in my heart

but sometimes late at night

when the smell of rain sneaks in my window

I’m allowed to visit

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- August, 2020)

This poem is the product of a brief stint of homesickness. For this poem, I used something similar to a stream of consciousness style, giving an image in each line (or couple of lines) that weave together into a tapestry of my childhood in Minnesota. The concept is good, but it just falls a bit short for me. 

In Cuenca

 We walk under steel wool

            tarantula thorax;

dripping fangs looking to swallow us whole.

Spider web threads

 

            proud necklace

                        luring in flies.

 

Your yellow sundress             dances

in the primal yawn

            surfing

down the sapphire slopes

rising   North   South   East  West

trapping us in this stew.

Amber eyes glare,

           

jackals cackling among their crew,

waiting around

 

            just to wait

            more.

 

Here we eat beans.

Here we eat bananas.

Here we eat flying stones, crumbling Church, volcanic ash.

Teardrops trickle down rooftops

           

flowing beneath the floating filth

            filling the cracks of antique

façades

            faded by the flashing of khaki clad expats –

the income pays for the trolley,

buries ponchos and Panama hats

beneath the sports bars the museums.

The rubble rolls under out feet.

 

If we jumped, our heads

would hit the ceiling,

            that grey, marble tombstone,

the only thing stopping us from flying away.

***
(Cuenca, Ecuador -- November, 2020)

This poem is similar in style to "Behind the Cilantro." I love the abundance of imagery and the use of metaphors here. It's important to note that in this poem, "we" refers to my wife and myself during our years living in the beautiful city of Cuenca. This isn't "we" as in "we the people of Cuenca" making me their de facto mouthpiece. That's not what I wanted at all here. 

Behind the Cilantro

 Out back behind the cilantro

            rose garden

            grew grain       grew corn

            the bean rows.

 

The Neptune-blue twilight

where the ravens flew

            glue west to east

with red gold greyish hues.

 

Most seeds fall on clay.

            We snooze;

            they whither.

 

And in the supernova baked day

            when field mice roam

            and foam fills the sapling armpits

where the toads played,

the crop,

            a sculpture       horticultural opera

stops operating its photosynthesis

mitosis

germination.

 

Toxic from the top down,

            imported poisons blow

native death

countryside     town     creek    river.

 

We nibble our nails,

            swatch of land starving

hopeless harvest.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- November, 2020)

My poetry really started coming along towards the end of 2020. This poem is a little too nonsensical to have much of a chance to be published, but it's a sign of digging deeper into imagery while moving towards a more contemporary style with the unconventional sentence structure and abundance of sensory detail.

No Escape

 It gnaws at your fingertips,

            presses at your sternum.

It scrapes its gnarled claws

                        along your forearms, clanks

in your head

                        like wrenches in a dryer.

 

Maybe you can hide behind a long run, a romantic

evening, a piece by Elgar or Fauré,

but it’ll find you,

            it’ll wait days for your return. You

 

look in the mirror, and there it is, hideous,

face. Trembling hands

            pick, pick, and scratch

            every bump, zit,

scab from past panics

until you’re too ugly to even show your face

            to your own mom

           

or your wife. A cabin in the woods,

            the highest alps,

            the remotest desert,

                        there is nowhere

 

that it isn’t. It doesn’t matter what you do

            or where you go

because it’s in you,

            coded into every cell. It is you.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- June, 2020)

As I learned the hard way several years ago in Africa, you can't escape anxiety and depression by running away. Even sometimes when you're trying your hardest to do everything right, these mental health issues still find a away to consume you. If you're dealing with these things, please talk to a trained mental health professional before taking any advice or perspective from my shitty poetry. 

Ambrosia

 Today, I drank a glass of water.

I drink water every day,

            but today, it was special.

I don’t know why.      It was from the tap,

            in the same cup I always use.

I forgot to fill the ice tray,

            so it wasn’t even cold.

 

Today, I drank the most delicious water

            of my life.

I can’t say where it is now,

            if it’s in my blood

            or if it’s still sloshing around my belly,

and I have no idea if it’ll leave me

            as sweat or tears

                        or pee.

 

Today, the water I drank

            baptized my tongue

            and rolled down my throat

            like glacial melt through a mountain slope

                        in spring.

 

It’s really a shame

            that there’s no word

            for the mute sweetness

            in the perfect glass of water

or for the invisible, tranquil bliss

            that fills the heart sometimes.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- June, 2020)

This is just a goofy, little poem about finding unexpected moments of bliss in the mundane. In this case, it was a particularly refreshing glass of water. I was probably dehydrated.  

In the Hands of the Moon

 surrendering to the hands of the moon

            salty home of the salt-lovers

            darkens its depths

for macabre beasts

           

vicious whirlpools

whip delicious krill

            for giant critters to binge

 

 

frothy and smooth

            aquatic forests

offer refuge to some

unending openness      feeds the rest

 

as in a single drop

so is the entire sea

            blind judge

                        billions of eyes probing

                        miles beneath the last ray of light

perfect             in unending change

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- May, 2020)

This is one of my favorite poems from this time. The style is a little dated, and the poem itself is a little dark and cryptic, but it's meant to take a look at the interconnectedness of all things and their powerlessness under the laws of nature that govern the entire universe and all of its living creatures.