Poem

The noodle lay limp over the brim of the bowl.
It looked tired and forsaken, soaked with soy.
Erica realeased a sigh from deep inside her chest,
Crispy and barbecued from the city.
Nudging the noodle, still staring at me with eyeless yearning,
Until it stuck to the pepper steak held in her twenty-five cent
Chop-sticks, she lifted it, looked at it with aversion,
Then bit down and
Chewed
And
Chewed
And
Chewed.
Then pushing away from the table,
Wiping the noodles black soy tears from the corner of her mouth,
She spoke about the terrible things happening in
Darfur.

The Oldest Trick in the Book

I sat paralyzed with terror. My hands tingled as if I had been pushing a lawnmower for hours. I could feel the muscles in my throat tighten to a close; you couldn’t fit a frog’s hair between them. Why couldn’t they have done this earlier? Where was my body’s natural instinct to protect itself before, when I was tearing into the red meat of the watermelon, not giving any regard to the mortal danger that was imbedded within.
I slowly sat down what was left of the melon, barely a half inch of soft pink rising above the rind, and walked from the porch to the edge of the chicken coop. My cousin, who delivered to me the warning about the black seeds far too late, followed. I watched a rooster peck the back of a hen’s head, and as I was letting down the latch to compartment where my grandfather had laid straw to give the eggs a nice place to lay, she spoke.

“You know, it ain’t all that bad.”
“What do you mean it ain’t all that bad?”
“Well, it probably ain’t any worse than one of the chickens layin’ an egg.”
“But I don’t wanna lay no egg the size of a dang watermelon!”
“You haven’t drank any water have you?”
“Well yeah!”
“Uh oh. Well, you ain’t ate any bread have you?”
“What’s bread got to do with anything?”
“Well, since you can’t have no dirt in your stomach, the seed sets into the bread and grows there. Have you ate any or what?”

Tears were now streaming single file from the edge of each eye.

“Yeah, I’ve ate some! Yesterday with lunch and with a ‘mater sandwitch this morning!”
“Hey stop cryin’! Alright?”
“I can’t! I don’t want no watermelon in me!”
“Listen, let’s go back up there and if nothing happens in a few minutes you’ll probably be okay. It don’t always work.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Uncle Dewit eats ‘em all the time.”
“But Uncle Dewit says his stomach is made of iron. And he’s magic anyways!”
“Magic? What are you talking about?”
“Well, I used to have the warts on my fingers and mama took me to see him. Well he got out a tater and cut it in half and rubbed it all over my hands. He done some other stuff with it and said some stuff I didn’t know, then me and mama left. Well, come a few days later they were gone!”
“You lie!”
“I promise!”
“Well come on we gotta get back up there.”

We reclaimed our seats on the porch. I sat with my back to the old church pew, my head level with my father’s knee, watching ants snake toward the bucket of old sweaty rinds. I could feel every movement inside me: blood flowing through veins, the touch of air against the tiny blond hair on my legs, the watermelon expanding in my belly. I watched in awe as they spit the seeds effortlessly out onto the lawn. The sun started touching the tops of the trees and soon enough was fighting to punch through them. I was home free. I had fought off certain death. I knew I must have inherited an iron stomach from Uncle Dewhit, who cousin Luanne stared at with trepidation.

Sexy Poems

Here for you viewing pleasure are two sexy poems. Why you ask? Because it's Monday and Mondays are sexy days.
************************************************************

I saw her
Delicate and drawn,
Grasping and groping and
Hoping this time it was real.
And it was for an instant---

The light from the hallway
Shown perfectly across her.
The heavy exhale of quaking breath,
The rhythm of the cicadas,
Who climbed from the dirt,
Toward the heavens,
Put on their wings,
And sang us that song,
While the empty shell of their childhood
Sat deaf and mute.


******************************************************


The smooth sexuality of a poet
Runs through ink and charcoal and key.
It wraps its fingers around the hard edge
Of a book and straightens the spine.
It speaks in whispers and longings like a nun,
Huddled against the wall, gripping a rosary, with a pillow
Between her legs.

The Boy Who Had Fish, Part IV

Her plan had worked perfectly. Luke did exactly what she knew he would. It took her months of planning. Of course she knew Luke would call Sara. After she walked in on their almost kiss at the new years party last year, she knew their bond over fish was something real. So she planted the bass with the letters, none of which were actually sent, carefully left a picture taken at the new years party on the desk, just in case he needed reminding on who to call and left before he came home. She was supposed to be away on business, and she was, setting up a plan to rid her husband of his fish forever.

Luke trembled. There was his wife Jackie, standing over Sara with a crowbar. She stared at him with a face furious with love and disappointment. She dropped the crowbar and it made an empty thud as it bounced off of Sara’s chest, walked toward Luke, raised her arms and irately beat him with her fist. Luke’s heart collapsed with guilt. His all consuming love of fish had driven the only woman he really loved to the brink of murder. He stared at Sara’s body and the snaking line of blood coming from her wound and knew that she was nothing but a symbol of his fish. A life he wanted to leave, for Jackie.

Jackie explained how she knew he would come here. The receipts from here tucked in the pockets of pants that she found doing laundry. He knew Sara would come, because even though she never really loved Luke, she loved his fish. She walked Luke over to the 18 wheeler she had rented and driven from Montgomery, opened the hatch and let Luke see his beloved fish that were stacked to ceiling. She told him that their baby would not live in a house where this was going on. A tear fell down Luke’s cheek as he thought about how he would never see them again, not because he didn’t want to, but because Jackie would most likely kill him if he said he wanted to keep them. They worked to rid the trailer of the fish, climbed in the cab of the truck, but in Born to Run and headed south.

Sara awoke with a raging headache. She placed her hand down to help herself get up and it slipped right out from underneath her. She looked down and realized she was laying on top of a 35 foot high pile of fish. The dockworkers were just arriving and she could hear police sirens heading that way, soon the reporters from the Times would be there and the head line would read:

Sara James: HAS ALL THE FISH IN NEW YORK!



The End.

The Boy Who Had Fish, Part III

As he stepped out of the cap, the click of his shoe echoed against the silent warehouse walls. Even for early April the air off the rivers sent a deep chill through him. He knew he was in the heart of the Bronx. Hunts Point was what you thought of when you thought Bronx: hookers, dealers, the sound of sirens. He had the cabbie wait. If Sara didn’t show he would need him there.

I’m writing this letter to inform you…Coward
…a disturbing and hidden history of fish. SPY!
He has been known to have dozens of fish…it effects every part of his life. Ruined.

He read the letters again and again. They were full of stone cold facts and his blood boiled. He began to wonder why he even though Sara would show up. Their last meeting was less than a happy memory. But exactly fifteen minutes late she arrived, her car splashing through potholes, carelessly unaware.

Behind the wheel, however, Sara knew exactly what was going on. She knew as soon as she hung up the phone with Luke just hours earlier. The address Luke gave her was to the Fulton Fish Market, one of the largest and most important fish markets on the East Coast. She also knew that for years it was run by the mob, and with Luke’s background, she knew he was in trouble. No way Luke would be caught dead in Hunts Point after dark, in daylight for that matter, without a very good reason.

As she walked toward Luke, she tossed a cigarette causally onto the slick concrete. Luke admired her unperturbed demeanor—he didn’t know that was her sixth one on the drive over. As they greeted each other with an embrace, Sara felt Luke’s stomach tighten as he drew in a sharp breath. She could feel his shoulders tightening as he gently pulled away. He stared past her left shoulder with eyes as wide as the bottom of Coke bottles for a split second.

Luke could not believe it. He stared into the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen and ever even glanced down at Sara’s cataleptic body.

The Boy Who Had Fish, Part II

The Macbook that had always provided him with warmth and security now cast a dead glow upon his face. The cursor of the word processor flashed in steady rhythm, a metronome for the melody of impending disaster. He thought of his daughter, yet unborn, and wondered aloud How will she know me?
He tried to keep a grasp on his mind, yet is slipped and turned figure eights into thoughts of marlin, snapper, tuna, grouper, and guppies. Even now, with the world about to know of his secret, he couldn’t help but think of the countless fish he had. Then it struck him in an instant, an epiphany of resolution, of absolution! A rush of air hit is stomach, inflating it with a vision of liberty. He moved with purpose from behind the laptop which now shown like a lighthouse to a sailor lost in the fog.
He gathered the letters. He read them. He made notes of times, dates, names. He quickly booked a flight. Then he called in a favor.
Sara James was beautiful. She was brilliantly smart. And she was wildly loud. But she was the only person right now who could help Luke. He knew her from college. Being that it was a very small liberal arts school, they knew each other well. Luke had always harbored a bit of jealously over Sara James’ love of another friend, Jonathan Tew. Jonathan was handsome, popular, and talented. However, this would be Luke’s ticket to acknowledgement. As the phone rang he wondered what he would say. What would she say? How could he tell her his situation? Then click..

“Hello?”
“Sara?”
“What the fuck do you want Luke?”
“Nice to hear from you too.”
“What the fuck do you want Luke?”
“Could you meet me in Manhattan ?”
“New York?! Luke you live in Alabama! You stupid piece of shit.”
“Sara, please.”
“Where? Ass.”
“ The Bronx. Hunts Point. 800 Food Center Drive. Don’t tell anyone.”