Dreams of Sinaloa
horseback on a clay trail in jalisco
i find two vanilla cream scorpions;
one on its back and one in tears
i ask the sad scorpion if he knows
the way back to colima
his sun cracked voice
whispers between spittled sand
save me from being without my isabella
his eyes roll back and his arms
lift with the rise of my boot
i scoop the dead lovers into my palm
and bury them on the side of the
clay trail in jalisco
Wingless Willeby
2:20pm
8 year-old, Meredith Baxter of Chesapeake Lane clips the
wings of her de-saturated yellow canary, Willeby.
Nine minutes before he dies.
2:21pm
With the smack of her squeal, Willeby is tossed from the 7th story window
onto passing, Agusta High-School Bus, number 434.
The colors bleed from his primary-overts onto his pale talons.
Eight minutes before he dies.
2:22pm
Willeby smiles at the wipe of concrete bridges, the stink of clouds.
Blood climbs his yellow plume and spills over the windshield.
Seven minutes before he dies.
2:23pm
The pop over manholes twist cartilage and return Willeby to
the present-moment; the center of sinewy tissue.
He finally tastes the fresh-oiled seed and sticky honey.
Six minutes before he dies.
2:24pm
His seven remaining tertials swim in the sideways rain.
Willeby pecks at exposed muscle to stay awake.
Five minutes before he dies.
2:25pm
Beneath the fine black lining his eyes waltz with the hum of engines.
This was the ease of sincere fruit, the freedom of every bird in town.
His last song would be his finest.
Four minutes before he dies.
2:26pm
The strings were angel hairs, the brass, bone of Roman Gods.
The beat of this drum reminds Willeby of Mother.
Three minutes before he dies.
2:27pm
The balance of soot and acrid wind surround his keel breastplate.
Wet the beak and bellow for the caged birds, Willeby.
He does, and the company of tailing pigeons listen.
Two minutes before he dies.
2:28pm
Willeby soars over the metropolitan expressway and steadies
his missing wings for the final flight.
One minutes before he dies.
2:29pm
Good day to you, Willeby. And good night to your captures.
Tomorrow you will have a Golden Alula and ripe feathers.
He swallows and weaps for the trapped children below.
Then, Willeby dies.
Series Letter #16
Dear Helen,
There is a little native boy outside my hut window. If I move more than two fingers around this pencil he will hear me and alert the tribesman. Last night I was able to bribe him with a piece of carob left over from the care package you sent. He allowed me to pace my room.
Tonight his smile faded when I had no mas. Now his marble eyes survey the walls outside, and I'm scared. He reminds me of our son. He has your spindly body, Helen. His caramel skin ashes like yours in the heat. I never understood how your body dried like a saladito. Remember when I begged you to sweat? Anyway, he reminds me of Douglas.
When I woke this morning my gut burned. I think it may be malaria, but I'm not sure. It comes in waves now. It must be ten degrees in here. I can see my breath over the words but this parchment is soaked in salt, so I know my body is broken.
Tell Douglas to paint me a picture and hang it over my workbench. Be sure he uses the entire canvas, you now how the white space drives me mad.
I can hear his eyes, Helen, the little native boy. I can hear him sniff at my movements. He has a broken foot, a fishing accident. He drags it when he walks, so I hear him shuffle, drag, shuffle, drag, all around the god damn perimeter.I think about killing him sometimes. One of my hands could fit around his entire neck, Helen. I could be swift about it. Maybe when this full moon breaks and these crickets realize there is no audience for their orchestra. I don't know. It was just a thought.
I will write again in the morning.
William
On This Porch
Cotton Dupree was a lampshade maker
Bellied within the cracked cement pastures
Of Haleytown, Georgia
Sing us a song of white plum trees, Cotton
Read us a story of wormwood and jam
The freeway below was a bed of lucid oysters
The burn of oil in his lungs was magnificent
The slow cut over his left eye reminds him of duality
Sing us a song of melted pumpkins, Cotton
Read us a story of daddy's tambourine hand
Little girls twist over hot leather seats
To get a glimpse of the man who would
Otherwise love them
Sing us a song of how the closet screams, Cotton
Read us a story of sharp rusted chains
The red eyes of copulating angels remind him of Luanne
The weight of his shame over boiled down dimples
He toes pigeon shit, spits over one empty can
Sing us a song of wet kitty whiskers, Cotton
Read us a story of the buried and maimed
There was no subject/object with her, no "other shore,"
Only forty years separation by the taste of salt on his lips
He bathed in her last breathe and the human smell
Sing us a song of Canary blood, Cotton
Read us a story of loose soil and soaked braids
On the other side was lemon-water and melon
Somewhere the balance of both burning ends
Blessed the stain of thine womb, O father forgive me
Sing us a song of scooped catfish, Cotton
Read us a story of fresh linens ahead
He lifted with obscurity into smog and debris
The smash of two-hundred pounds
The crack of one pound of teeth
Sing us a song of milk over embers, Cotton
Read us a story of the best time to die
The gates were closed and the bulbs all broken
His tendons ablaze against a technicolor fire
Cotton Dupree was a lampshade maker
"Dreams of Sinaloa" has previously appeared in Shampoo.
Alveraz Ricardez is a screenwriter living in Los Angeles with his wife and two children. His poetry has been published in several literary journals and magazines. His first volume of poetry, Hot Mud Poems is now out of print. His chapbook, Mosquito can be purchased through the publisher, Kill Poet Press. You may contact Alveraz through his production company here: www.zampanofilms.com
Last update : 08-06-2008 09:19
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