Poetry: Alex Z. Salinas

Alex Z. Salinas
Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. He is the author of WARBLES, a full-length poetry collection from Hekate Publishing (2019), and Dreamt, a limited-edition chapbook from Analog Submission Press (2020). His poems, short fiction and op-eds have appeared in various print and electronic publications, and he serves as poetry editor for the San Antonio Review. He holds an M.A. in English Literature and Language from St. Mary’s University.

Holes well-stitched

It’s sunny out today,
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,
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
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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