This is a game for when the nights are long
and mom needs a break. You turn out the lights
and roll newspaper into baseball bats.
You close your eyes and scream and flail.
No one can hit anyone with any force this way.
This was my father’s game. Everyone feels like a winner,
like they’ve got something to say about being bad.

King Kong

The game is King Kong. The baby is under my arm
hand wrapped around the barrel of her. No one makes
me feel so animal. More ape. I throw myself into the air.
I climb up to the roof of our house. All the while
I beat my chest. I made the world. The world is safe.
The world is a safe place for you.

A Dangerous Man

Despite the bravado
I am not what you might call
a dangerous man though
I’m handy with a crowbar
I’m not afraid to spend
money to make money
I like watching fights
I don’t understand justice
I’d like to garden all day
maybe raise some fruit
that tastes sweet but also fresh
and think about sugar
and colonization I’d like to sip
tea on the porch and eat
surrounded by loved ones
all of them well fed and happy
and for them I’d do everything
in my considerable power
all the dangerous things
all the quiet violence required.

The post “Bad Doggy in the Dark,” “King Kong,” and “A Dangerous Man” appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

like the kid who knows

he’s a year too old

to sit on the mall Santa’s lap,

waiting in line anyway,

hedging his bets

to make certain that new dirt bike

is under the tree.

Which is to say, I am aware,

but not sorry,

about my concurrent desperation for

and disbelief in

some heavenly robber baron

peering down at his factory floor

from a high office window,

ready to deliver us non-union

hoi polloi whenever we cry out

for his benevolence. Right now,

I’m praying the woman I love

is not pregnant.

With God, I use the word ruin,

ignore the guilt that comes

knowing I am made in His image.

I told the woman I love

I’d go with her to the clinic,

pay whatever the cost,

but she says, no,

she says, we’re keeping it.

Fear turns every prayer

into a bargain.

Reader, am I more ashamed

of what I’m asking to be done,

or how you can see me

kneeling at the edge of my bed

with the limited omniscience

I’ve given you?

Because if you can see it, God can see it.

Silence, His answer also.

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After and for Wanda Coleman

i wanna talk about wanda, wanda can i talk about you
wanda can i talk to you, wanda, girl, mam, sistuh, mama
how should i address you, how should i dress for you
wanda what should i wear, wanda are you worn out
can i get a word with you wanda what should i call you
wicked witch wordsmith wonderful wanda i got a mouth
full of wanda & i wanna talk about wanda

wanda where should we go, wanda you ever been to
wakanda, wanda how can i reach you, on the world wide
web@wanda, at 1-800-itswanda, why’s nobody talkin
bout you wanda, i’m worried about you
wanda are you dead

i need to talk to you, i been wandering, girl, i been
wallowing, wanda i gotta go to work in the morning
wanda what do you wish for, wanda come to bed
wanda let’s go for a walk, wanda let’s drink some
whiskey, wanda let’s do fourteen lines & stay up all
night cause i need to talk to you wanda

wanda, i been watching you, waaaaaanndaaaaaaaa!
i hear you wanda & i wanna talk about how you done
opened this wound & i wanna be just like you
wanda where are you, wanda i love you

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Mark Kendall’s fingers slither up the strat’s fretboard
so smooth the sound comes out of a Marshall stack
like butter, and then Audie Desbrow switches
from brush on cymbal to thumping the tom:
now Great White is rocking the f—k out.
Permed hair swings side to side, like they’ve seen
in endless videos of glam bands shredding,
though their sound owes more to blues
than Lemmy or Slash. But the crowd of suburban moms,
teens in black concert shirts, bikers with spider tattoos,
and pool hall burnouts could care less about theatrics—
the flash pots and pyro waterfalls earn no applause—
they just want to sway to gravelly-throated melodies.
This is my first concert, the Patriot Center,
we pounded their cassette in Mike’s mom’s minivan
the whole way here, we’re eighteen rows back,
which still feels close enough to catch a pick
if Michael Lardie tosses one away, and at the end
of the night I’ll freeze this moment in time
and Great White will become immortal.
That’s how we think when we’re fourteen
and the volume is turned up loud: what’s come before
and passed was temporary but now, this moment,
the one that had been waiting for me to live it—
even if I can feel the tug of time at my sleeve
I don’t have to believe there’s anything better
than, or after, now. There’s so much I can’t fathom
about the tour bus of time, which idles out back
of the arena, knowing we’ll all have to board
and ride and ride and ride. In fifteen years those guys
on stage will be worn thin with addiction, haunted
by tables blocking the exits of a nightclub on fire,
arthritic and angry and sad. In thirty I’ll slide an old tape,
…Twice Shy, into the deck and give it
thirty seconds before it goes in the trash:
how hollow its keyboards, how meager its bass,
how empty that rasp that once I thought had soul.
I’ll think about all I’ve learned and won’t pine
for a time when the ordinary wonder of youth
seemed so unglamorous I tried to drown it out
with hairspray, double-necked guitars
and gaunt idols in leather pants. But how much can be said
for age and wisdom? My ear still throbs
from the mall piercing kiosk, I’ve had my first sip
of beer, and this is the moment I’ll return to
for the rest of my life. The singer is twitching,
his mic stand holding him up. It’s the most
rock and roll thing I’ve seen to date. It’s cartoonish.
It’s the most rock and roll thing I’ll ever see.

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Angels do not appear dressed as we imagine. Why
would they? They are naked beneath their poor choices:
unmatched and worn. A hat and no shoes. Shoes
and no shirt. Unpressed. Unvarnished.
Nor do they appear porcelained and
glowing as the skins of fish trapped in the depths do.
An angel is nothing if not ferocious. How else
to look upon the face of the unfathomable and live?
And they live all around us, drawn to our smell of
semen and clay, sweat and womb. You may feel
them as something that brushes your neck –
You assume the flit of a mosquito
where there are actually great and invisible wings, so thin
and transparent in the days, then dark
against the darker night. Be glad you cannot recognize their faces.
They are not faces any could love.
Many a coarse man has insulted an angel
upon seeing one. Gorilla. Many an assumed good man thinks,
Ugly bitch. The angel appears to laugh because
the mouth opens with the corners turned up, but
the sound is a high wail, a keening into the blue.
An angel holds no boundary between ecstasy and rind.
How do I know?
Would you believe me? Let’s say I have held more than one
in my pitiful arms. Let’s say I have stroked the head
of fallen angels who knew I would. And their mouths. Their mouths.
I pick up where others leave off. I walk the streets alone.
And there one is: so lonely, so lonely my back aches. I am not afraid
to face the unbeautiful guardians in all their guarded beauty. I am
a bale in the barn where they may lay. I am the sweet-grass high
and pungent where they may shed their tears. Look at my bed.
Feathers     everywhere. And in my hair,       down.

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These lines might declare
that I no longer fear it, but I boast
like one who wields

new weapons—
all bravado, flourish, and strut—
while inside I’m gripped

with recoil, knocked back
by pushback of any kind.
Or maybe I’m too tired

to drag this plough
any deeper into shadow, maybe
I want to rest. Maybe

I want to weave even darkness
into soft, heavy blankets
with which to build a nest. Colder

the winds that blow now,
closer to the bone. Crow’s feet.
Lost teeth. Slipping

memories, one by one. Diagnoses
and crises of every type
and a diminishing

capacity for sleep
and still I must admit
that honey seems

even more honeyed, now,
the sun shining
toward my slippered feet—

golden as clarified butter.
Ghee, sun, a mother’s love.
This day is an amber

I’d happily be petrified
within, ancient light granting
warmth and clarity

to dwindling days. Shadows
cast by leaves
flicker and drift across my floor

to remind me of doors
opening and clicking shut
at once, all the places

we must enter or exit
with love. Honeycomb me,
catacomb me, seed me

back into earth
when its my turn,
having drawn from me first

each fault
& imperfection, leaving
only bright fire

burning, & sweetness.
I’ll wait where the wind
nudges seed

from a dead pod,
where the night
spins in dervishes

the sand that will blanket it.
One day maybe I’ll snap
as easily

onto a breeze, homebound
by parachute, propeller, or wing.

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With her, you are more. Morning now. You are
horizontal in the guest bed most of the time. You
are awake and horizontal more than you have ever
been. She is awake most. Bassinet. You think
bassinet may be the problem. Sideways, you
watch midsections of trees, the tic-tac-toe box
of windowpanes. If X wins today, she will sleep
more than an hour. X like an eye floater lands in
the center of a pane. O goes in the corner. That’s
as far as you get before forgetting where the first
X went. The branches are a tangle. She is stirring.

—

She is awake most of the time. You imagine
the treetops, birds nesting. The sky brightens to
gray. You think cold may be the problem. More
boxes like open mouths on the floor: fleece sleep
sack in forest green, cuddle-bug softie sling, and
easy wrap swaddle. There’s a book called “Joan
is Okay” somewhere in there for you. Based on
the jacket copy, it is unlikely Joan is okay. This
is a comfort. Comforter. For her, sometimes you
break the rules: she sleeps on your chest while
you sleep. Bed sheets nested in a ball at your feet.

—

You think feeding may be the problem. You try
to order more, lock your phone typing the wrong
password. Your fingernails have grown like trees.
Your iPhone, unavailable. Try again in one minute.
One hour for formula; two hours for breast milk.
If your baby does not finish formula in one hour,
discard. Two pounds in weight gain. One month.
One mouth. Eat, play, sleep. Classic ball in red,
yellow, blue, and green. Sassy tummy-time mirror.
You recall a workshop that started with a warning:

—

We must consider that, in all likelihood, someone
in this room is carrying more than they can bear.
She sleeps on your chest. You try to write about
her eyes. In the notes app, you type “large, brilliant,
and black” which you’ve stolen from a Brontë and
from Mr. Rochester’s son. You try to write about
yourself but hear the phrase “a ponderous house”
instead, which aren’t your words either and no
longer apply to this version of you. In this house,
she grows eyelashes. Growing is not the problem.

—

You are unavailable. You close your eyes and see
little boxes on a hillside. Lyrics from television,
a theme song. You close your eyes and see her
fingernails, fragile as a bird. This box is now
made with sustainable materials. ETA right now.
Your package has been delivered. She sleeps
through the doorbell’s ring. How can that be?
Fish in a tree. One fish, two fish, red and blue.
The refrains that come are increasingly unhelpful.

—

The room at night. At night, you nurse on the floor.
There is no way to nurse without making a mess.
It feels important that the comforter stay stainless
the way it was before. Stainless doesn’t apply to
fabric. You hum the lullaby about feeding birds
when the words won’t come. She doesn’t mind.
Eat, sleep, branching. You hold her and are more,
watch from the floor the world spin, the moon
finding its way, rising out of the split of a tree.

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that fat bee bumping up against the window,
the faint sound of a neighbor’s car radio.

And if neither here nor there is where we are
then perhaps the Sunrise Nursing Home is the dawn,

is the new day, perhaps leaving your mother with a stranger
not unlike her—divorced with three kids, threatened

with dismissal if she refuses to work a double shift—
perhaps this is the white flag the world has been waiting for,

the moment before the universe says, Just kidding
and you can turn around and drive your mother back

to a house that’s wheelchair accessible, to the English teacher
(strong, reliable…) you hoped was in your future

or perhaps a sister who likes being in charge, loves
to be right so that every decision you don’t want to make,

so that whatever reality is or isn’t,
at least you’re not in there by yourself.

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