Five Poems

Anxiety of Influence

Cal. Sentimentalism gone too far is sitting on the curb outside her building the whole night through. Cold and given up on cold for warm dreams of her cozy apartment exorcized of your petulance. Cal. I didn’t mean it, but I did. Your legs kicked out on the dead gray street, leaning back with a cold beer; you aren’t just leaning back in your mind on her couch watching The Good Marriage, The Open (no, not like that) Marriage, or The Decent Marriage, with your arm around her; your smile is slackening, your lips parting. Cal, I saw the shade in the window across the street part; you must have clinked the sidewalk when you put your beer down. You told me the sex was great, but great based on your admission means unoriginal. Cal. You’re in public. Let me guess, she’s stroking you in your mind now, because you’re stroking yourself. A couple is standing in the dark window. You aren’t phased; part of your boundaries problem. You told me about your problem that wasn’t really a problem until she realized what was happening which you couldn’t really help because the sex got to be off the chain. Something along the lines of happening to be taking her to bed one night and some sort of spell, a long missing rhythm overcame you, a rhythm you grooved in and damn. But what it turned out to be was your neighbor’s headboard rocking the wall her bed laid against and you were all four in a foursome of sorts, facing each other down (perhaps), and you were using their rhythm for your rhythm. You realized they got into bed around 10:30 every night and planned your seducings for round about 10:00, sometimes subconsciously, sometimes not. If they caught on to your picking up on their bedroom habits, they didn’t mind, might’ve been into it. When she caught on. Cal. She’s up there. So are they, though they might not mind if they saw you. Their headboard is slamming in your head if it’s too late for them to be slamming the headboard, but it might not be too late for them. The couple in the window retreats, ashamed for watching, maybe, or maybe they were into it. I have high hopes for them, but not for you. You knock over your beer bottle as you pull your hand out of soggy pants, and walk briskly out of your head and onto another cold, clear street.

Progressive Mothers

The perils are fabricated by us – horned beasts,
lonely mountaineers, a misstep to track down
the more interesting fungi (your beeches, sweet
teeth and lion’s mane) and intuition hijacked
our lost daughters’ guiding light. We are comforted

on a whitewashed porch by wispy yerba mate
and insect repellent tiki torches. Rebecca reassures
us she mourns McGovern’s politics, not just
his good looks. We ditched our selves in Golden Gate
on identical democratizing hallucinogens, hearts

in tune with the drum circle which closed its eye
and missed the bus; our daughters are chummier
in the Vermont mountains with the nature we desired
to dissipate into, and had their dealer soberly drop
them at the foot. From the chirrup in his tone

there’s no chance he’ll be on campus when we roll
on in; another son lost to self-started, self-measured
economies in the scarlet face of despotic parenting.
We all agree: he’s better off blasted off the grid
in his soft top Wrangler, than Republican.

Mayweather v. Maidana

(i)

The resort wrangled a channel
on the old cathode television,
and I hit the rum punch, hard.

(ii)

Maidana throws haymakers
into spectacled heaviness. The ring
is a contrived island. Mayweather
hangs back, heat and horses pent.

(iii)

A palm frond bruises the bags
beneath my eyes with shade, a breather
from the annihilating Caribbean radiation;

whiffing has pushback, meaning I ought
to have set my sights lower
than perpetual yellow, blitzed vacation.

My little brother flutters the tideline
with a sandpiper’s diplomatic footwork.

Revivification in biting light of blood
responsibility is akin to not being able
to vomit up a vindictive hangover.

My little brother doesn’t mind
being anchor, kite, excuse, or guilt.

(iv)

My sense of duty is caged
in my place of origin. I smother
the island with built-up
falsification: coconuts as lacking
real economy, hammocks
exclusively form-fitting luxury,
the ocean as candied discovery.

(v)

Mayweather petulantly whirls, puts in
a little jab work and they call the match
without a floored body. The crowd

feels goosed, but glad. I find God was
once a winner, a wide-eyed boxer beaming,
misogynistic blowout at the club

miles away. To run is to make your mistake
more final. The crowd smothers
the ripped wrestlers. My little brother

loves it. He pinches the wind out of me
with a tight bow. C’mon champ,
he taunts. He fights, and fights

Mayweather v. Pacquiao

            “It’s not that he’s afraid of Manny”

(i)

Neither has reached ease
of consciousness. Mayweather
won’t fight until the buildup flourishes
to a significance that matches his imminent
flat-line into simple blue days couched with videos
of his former self crushing a series
of chumps. The clubs involved with the post-culmination
of dreams celebrations will likely have footage
as well, should he like to recall his original
state of flying outside (above?) the realm of other people.

(ii)

Said she was messed up about boys
and he was too nice for that. He makes
his angst more grand by blasting
the subwoofer and revving his little engine.
Gasolinic rivers plumed to prove her wrong
and depart from his natural self. He did
feel something different, and built
his melancholy up to occupy a roomy
Russian ballroom, and stretch its legs balletic
across the freshly waxed floor.

(iii)

The gouged ruby was hiked as the dealer
repeated the tragedies it took: the dead
husband, the debts, the original lover
the consigner got it from who’d plucked it
among hawks and guns in Alexandria – two
loves lost, he mused, and from the edgings
you can tell the jeweler treated his rocks
as pedestaled lovers, never meant for him,
always on their way to brighter pastures.

(iv)

Mayweather feels like he can fight,
but he can’t. He drifts off well before
the surround sound knockout,
which is tragic. All his eggs
in a sad, single ring, no saving grace.

[in light of other men]

(i) (Giants v. Dodgers)

The boys are thrown by boys.

One wants to fight, and a fight
hasn’t crossed the other’s won mind.

Grandma wishes no one
would fight.

She has picked up on the second baseman’s
saddled ambition to beat the shortstop
out of a job.
He’s dug into his head,
not second base.

Grandma is on the edge
of her flowered couch,
telling herself that souls touch
when they whip each other in the showers,
and even if the initial reaction was anger
that landing in a pile of golden muscle
means camaraderie
and a softening of competition.

Grandma whips the television
with the remote control when the team
misplaces teamwork, then shuts up.
She didn’t want to fight.

(ii) (Mayweather v. Pacquiao)

A perfect record versus the public calling him a pansy.
The thing he thinks of is dignity.
The thing grandma thinks of is who do they think they
are appropriating flowers. There are things
much more important to call Mayweather out on.
Why money, Money?
Why do you feel like you have to defend yourself –
is it because you were wrong in the club
and you can only see yourself with wins?
She wants to ask why fists, but she knows that fists got him
to where he is today, which he isn’t close to sad about,
so she asks, too late, what comes after fists,
Money, driving your cars quickly?
Does having a favorite make it hard to pick?