Black Olives

The bent lamp contemplates fire, its light

is louder than emergency.

What in the world, in this house,

can make him his father.  Are coffee stains

on a V-neck tee-shirt equated with perseverance?

Is the sharp fetor of Skoal lingering in the toolshed

instilling in him a work ethic, or instructing him

how to use slip knots to secure plywood

to the roof of a foreign car?

There were days when he would swear

avocados and black olives would strengthen skin,

deepen the simian creases

in his palms.  There is a generational pride

in rough hands, even for the son

who dreads the shovel and the word

chassis scares him to death:  Son,

                        what the hell are you

doing in there?            Writing

a poem, cursing

that red wheel barrow,

shit depends on it.  Right now

so much more depends

on how the son

answers the father,

even as an electric heat

fills the room.

Comic-Spirit Attending

I was your pratfall hee-hee, Louisville

Slugger chivalry, tilting agave stalk

at wandering shopping carts

All my clumsy was premeditated, escalated

ho-ho, tit for tat, I sang ku ku with my good arm      

flailing at the pompous, child-like

They knelt on a brown papyrus bag

stuffed with color, a parakeet inside

lifted the spectrum from their crawling shadow

My totem was stitched to my shirt, the emblem

never wavering as my brothers watched me

leap from the pit, waltzing the merchants  

In your oldest story, I remained,

rooster-crested, I let go

of your tail, singing

Ha ha in the garden

Feng huang, a-doodle-doo

Until we lunch and milkshake

phoenix-like, resurrected

on twisting knee

Until I return on the Encanto train, I will nest

among pistachios, motley-plumed

imagine me

broad-smile beside you,

when eternity fits your laugh

with a gray top-hat and oversized coat

Ladmo 

1928—1994

"Life Direct" Published in Southwestern American Literature

Proud to have my poem "Life Direct" in the latest issue of Southwestern American Literature.
The poem itself is a result of rough writing through my "Give me This Day my Daily Spam" project.

Holidays on Fire

(a poem ending with a line from Milton)

yet in the August sun, you desire weight, skin

for shedding, dripping in salty constellation

their swollen fetuses falling around you, the medical

names for flesh inspire necrotic scabs

turbulent angels worm into your mind

to wonder what flies are worth

each a ghost lifting the bubble of disease

around the world, how the nets are torn

not only in a chorus, but a choral echo

of buzz and hum, and on your masterful lips

a prayer, bloated, illuminates like a cautionary tale

the hailstorm is bitter, expletives drop to their knees

in a skewered communion, liturgy is red meat

lift your voice with the bench of fire-breathers and all

the candles you burn assume the shadows,

from those flames, no light, but rather darkness visible

a poem for dverse candles and light

parcel

deliver me

the details, number

the legs, trace your fingers

around the space

where loneliness takes it

the hardest, lonely teeth

mouth our bodies, let

our elephants trek

the folded skin

of Hannibal’s escape

march me

through your pass,

let us screw

this up, leaving

crumpled satin trumpets

along the toll roads

of our retreat

fifty-five words for gman 

& dverse

Backstory

The first snow combs the sky.

Under a cotillion weight of so many icy maidens,

branches dip with their scores of graying juniper.

Crystalline blooms huddle

on the rotunda. These ladies bring nothing

but myths of symmetry. Maybe

midweek, sun enough will

drop them, bring them to tears

among the stones. May's thaw

will wrestle the gin from the conifers.

They’ll compose a fable

in the slope

of my nose.

open link night 125