Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Expectations of Adulthood

The wool uniform, even in summer,
the knee socks and emblem on the weskit
set us apart from the children
in public school who could wear jumpers
or leotards or whatever their mothers chose.
Sometimes we played baseball near the grotto,
the statue of the Virgin always close,
or mimicked the speech of our parents.
Nixon versus Kennedy, differences arose.
Sister Mario taught music, urged us to use
soap not shampoo when washing our hair.
We mustn’t smell too good. Shampoo
makes you vain, her dark eyebrows scolded,
the only bit of hair not hidden by her wimple.

I would be a god.
I would be perfect,
and when I died
they would build a shrine.
I would run the bases
every single time.

In the painting at my grandmother’s house,
the cardinal in red biretta, the parrot squawking
through his study, the skull on the desk,
seemed to give the solution
and the solution was art.

I would find the reasons
behind every single lie.
I would win a prize.
I would never die.

Friday, September 5, 2008

I Used to Think

I used to think when people died their images would fade,
their color pictures change to black and white then grey,
their spirits hover like the light at nightfall.
After his fatal heart attack, I felt Walter tethered
to the earth, revolving like a moon in orbit
or were we revolving around him
who felt alone out there?
But when you died I saw nothing.
The sun eclipsed, the moon
went dark, and an absence grew
so vast a continent appeared where I now live.

Monday, September 1, 2008

I wrote this poem right after September 11, but thought I would post it today,
because George W. Bush was scheduled to speak at the Republican National Convention.

I Dream of George W
.

In Egypt at the foot of the Sphinx.
Vast expanse of desert and dunes.
In the far distance, office towers,
the skyline of some city of over a million.
As I move along with my tour group,
a projectile whistles past my ear.
The skyscrapers vanish, and in their place,
a mushroom cloud and flames.
Another explosion flattens the rest of the city.
Nothing is left. Holy shit. Holy shit.

Later. another dream.

George W. Bush has come for dinner.
He will only eat a certain kind of potato
and when I fix it he winks at me.
I feel like France during the second world war.
Mostly I want to eat drink and be merry,
might take up cigarettes again to help me face the firing squad.
Will I be killed for something the military
did over which I had no control?
How many more Iraquis will die for something
in my name? Will today be the last day
of my life?