Alex Z. Salinas |
Holes
well-stitched
It’s
sunny out today,
Chilly,
Delightful
still and
OutKast
said to be
So
fresh and so clean and
The
Ronettes
Came
on asking,
So won’t you,
please,
Be my, be my baby?
And
I do, I do want to be their baby,
So
I glance at the sun,
Ray-Bans
on,
Declare,
Be
my baby,
Come
be my baby, Mr. Sol,
My
soul has holes,
Seen
some stuff on these mean streets,
But
otherwise it’s well-stitched,
Warm
year-round and
Thank
God I didn’t return
Drunk
and gored from deserts
Across
the Earth
Like
my buddy Morales,
Who’s
lately been on my mind,
That
big-hearted little freak from
Yesteryears
I’ve yet to
Reconcile,
Ghostlives
from which I’ll pluck words,
Slam
down the great American novel,
The
very one I dream of,
The
very one dreaming me back,
This
desolate writer
Breathing
rhythm & blues out of bright
Cold
mornings.
***
Little jelly
I
turn some T.S. Eliot lines over in my head
For
an indeterminate amount of time and in
This
finite spatiotemporal endeavor I wonder,
What’re
you raging on about, you stiff-lipped
Buffoon?
What’s your big problem with the
World,
you overeducated anti-Semite?
Why
are your Four Quartets so utterly
Contained
despite their aim to overturn order?
I
suppose if my so-called friend Virginia
Woolf
considered me a fine American, but a
Mediocre
Brit, I too might be a bit perturbed.
I
suppose if I died 40 years too soon, couldn’t
Enjoy The Passion of
the Christ
and brother
Mel’s
drunken demise, I too would be so
Bothered.
But what the hell, I had Ezra
Fooking
Pound in my corner. What more
Do
I have to say, other than get lost in
The
Waste Land. If I’m being honest, I
Suppose
I’m slightly upset I can’t write prose as
Intelligible
as “In my end is my beginning.”
No,
I write lines like “My heart is encased
In
shark teeth.” What on Earth does that even
Mean?
What might good ol’ Modernist Tom
Eliot
say about that pound cake winner? Maybe
I’ll
scribble a poem about it someday.
***
Control freak
God’s
a control freak
If
we’re made in His image
God’s
a writer
Therefore
He’s tortured
God
likes man
Who
likes God
God’s
like man
Who
likens after God
God
smites man
Who
likes other men
God,
I finally washed my car
God,
I think I like You on paper
On
paper I think I’m like You, God
God,
driving a clean car sure feels great.
***
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