The camera, to his eye,
Was a creator of enlightenment.
A long black Cadillac.
The front doors:
Breath.
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Category: Free Verse Poetry
August Poem 40: Dinner in the House of Ghosts
The red faced gagging. Calm, you grab him. He
Has chocked before. The crook of your left arm
Between his legs, your palm across his chest.
You lift him tilting his head toward the floor
Resting your arm on your knee. You clap him
On the back with your strong hand. Ears still red.
The side of his cheek turning purple. You
Clap him harder. But you don’t want him hurt.
You ask, “Are you breathing? Are you breathing?”
He turns his head, red faced. He turns his head
And looks you in the eye. His watery
Red eyes. Pleading. But he can’t speak. He just
Reflects back your same fear. You hit him on
The back harder. He still isn’t breathing.
You hit him harder afraid you might break
His ribs. Then you hit even harder. You
Put your ear next to his mouth and listen.
No breath. Why isn’t it working? His cheeks
Are full. There is something in his mouth. You
Forgot a step. Finger sweep. You reach toward
His mouth and extend a finger. But he
Sees your hand. Thank God. He is still conscious.
He turns his head and spits a wad of chewed
Sausage into your palm. Looks at you and
Smiles, red faced and watery eyed. And
Croaks one ragged breath. Much too short. But breath.
You say, “Are you breathing?” His face purple.
And he says nothing. You turn to listen.
His breath. Nothing. What else? What do you do?
You call out for his mother. You don’t know
Why. You cry out for her. He isn’t able.
You scream for her. Crying because he can’t.
What are you doing? You can’t stop trying.
You have to pick up the phone. Call nine-
one-one. But you can’t leave him. You can’t move.
You cry. Where is his mother? Where is yours?
Death lingers just outside your vision. He’s
Waiting to lend his cold hands. Whispers. And
He’ll call your son’s name. You’ll feel Death’s breath and
You’ll wonder: what kind of devil is Death
To leave a man helpless and on his knees
With a warm wad of chewed meat in his hand?
August Poem 16: Weekend with Dad
What is it to be a son? To be a
Tool to make the ladies swoon. To make them
Gather in the hospital hallway. To
Have them pinch your cheeks. To blush when they call
You handsome. To be confused when they call
You, a child, sexy. To be fodder
as your father takes in your praises. As
He lets the ladies know that he has you
For the weekend. That he is virile. That
He is eligible. That he has good
Strong genes. That he can father a handsome
Child. That he is dutiful. That he is
Loving. That he would bring his son to work
So he could flirt with the younger ladies.
July Poem 20
Is the governess a prologue?
James’s discursive field of letter.
The governess said after and then repeated governess.
This phrase could be sign that he had himself.
The reappearance of a story to tell his story
Creates an area of discourse.
I saw he was not hand.
James following this, I took for an argument.
Yes, the competition, the went.
This nothing two more times,
James Douglas.
Elsewhere, Francesco and Miles
Repeat the word. Up until page 6.
Before Miles admits to having
Opened the story to the group.
Before the fact, the manuscript arrives.
And how the author’s hand postpones his telling
Should be referred to as the hand of agree.
July Poem 19: It’s Probably Both
Is it because you are retarded,
Or are you just too fucking lazy?
Oh, hell… Is it both?
July Poem 18: Religion
It was just a collection of platitudes.
The silken fabric that clung
To the fortune cookies
That my father insisted would open,
That he used to open
So many women’s blouses.
July Poem 17: God Stands Confused
Even with the best passages memorized,
He could not
Understand the stand
Taken to take him
As your God before me.
