Poem Conversation With Jaimes Palacio
(This gives me nostalgia cramps.)
Dear Jaimes,
You were the best thing
that ever happened to me
in the back of a van.
You drove around with a cocoon of pillows
and a stack of meticulously catalogued
pornography.
You slept to the sound of street noise,
showered at the health club.
Mostly I hope you’re indoors these days.
I hope you’re still yelling at God when the car dies-
someone has to be the one to say it.
When the broken alternator started flickering the clock,
you were the vehicle.
You carry it all on your back.
You’re not the only one who takes God’s mistakes personally.
We threw our five-star gala tantrums in harmony.
It was so long ago.
Though mostly I try not to be broken,
light shines out the cracks anyway,
as we modulate our sorrows
and parse out our gust-voiced rages.
How are you?
King Kong Didn't Have A Penis and Jaws Couldn't Eat Tapioca
(for Jane)
Dear Jane,
I am still waiting.
For the brilliant light bulbs that swirl around your head
to cast their shine on me.
I would even settle for the smaller porch light models!
The last time I remember seeing you, you were wearing
a Rhinestone Tiara and telling us all to eat cake.
We all had our illusions then.
We were our own back lot Hollywood. Cast in
glamorous roles that maybe we weren't quite suited for.
I, the beatnik hobo in a collaged mini-van.
You, the princess waiting for a prince.
But illusions are just dreams made real enough
to trick us. King Kong was a puppet. The lust in his eyes
painted glass. Jaws was made out of rubber
and apparently had a hard time swallowing. Lassie
couldn't tell you if Timmy was in the well even if she
had a Rosetta Stone.
Now, I sleep in a rented room, though still collaged.
The porn collection is still categorized. All those
naked bodies staring blindly into the darkness. Coats
and pants and Hawaiian shirts I never wear hovering
over them like body less preachers.
I make it from paycheck to paycheck without being
able to save anything. I suspect I will make a lousy
old man.
On occasion, I still yell at God.
And what really pisses me off.
Is she never, ever answers.
Dear Jaimes,
You were the best thing
that ever happened to me
in the back of a van.
You drove around with a cocoon of pillows
and a stack of meticulously catalogued
pornography.
You slept to the sound of street noise,
showered at the health club.
Mostly I hope you’re indoors these days.
I hope you’re still yelling at God when the car dies-
someone has to be the one to say it.
When the broken alternator started flickering the clock,
you were the vehicle.
You carry it all on your back.
You’re not the only one who takes God’s mistakes personally.
We threw our five-star gala tantrums in harmony.
It was so long ago.
Though mostly I try not to be broken,
light shines out the cracks anyway,
as we modulate our sorrows
and parse out our gust-voiced rages.
How are you?
King Kong Didn't Have A Penis and Jaws Couldn't Eat Tapioca
(for Jane)
Dear Jane,
I am still waiting.
For the brilliant light bulbs that swirl around your head
to cast their shine on me.
I would even settle for the smaller porch light models!
The last time I remember seeing you, you were wearing
a Rhinestone Tiara and telling us all to eat cake.
We all had our illusions then.
We were our own back lot Hollywood. Cast in
glamorous roles that maybe we weren't quite suited for.
I, the beatnik hobo in a collaged mini-van.
You, the princess waiting for a prince.
But illusions are just dreams made real enough
to trick us. King Kong was a puppet. The lust in his eyes
painted glass. Jaws was made out of rubber
and apparently had a hard time swallowing. Lassie
couldn't tell you if Timmy was in the well even if she
had a Rosetta Stone.
Now, I sleep in a rented room, though still collaged.
The porn collection is still categorized. All those
naked bodies staring blindly into the darkness. Coats
and pants and Hawaiian shirts I never wear hovering
over them like body less preachers.
I make it from paycheck to paycheck without being
able to save anything. I suspect I will make a lousy
old man.
On occasion, I still yell at God.
And what really pisses me off.
Is she never, ever answers.