zach-gomes - Hello Poetry

On a hot hot day nothing better than sweet sticky rice coconut milk a big ripe mango That, I felt, was what the fly thought he touched down onto my mango, it was so sweet, pouring saccharine sweat ripe slabs of yellow smorgasborg endless pleasure of sugar mango flesh it seemed good to the fly Across the water, pressing over the mountains, opaque threads of rain, like slim tornadoes twisting ash into the clouds moved this way things never looked good for the fly He ate nonstop, boozed up on mango an unlimited supply of yellow stuff he gained weight by the second there was no point in stopping the more juice the mango sweat the stickier its meat the more mango the drunk fly ate, the further he sank into its flesh he was stuck, flailed his stupid legs in the air as if more flies coming would rather help him than eat juicy golden mango feast he died there, I think the monsoon would make sure of it I tossed the mango, sticky rice the styrofoam plate thinking it spoiled, fearing the rain

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May 3, 2011

May 3, 2011 at 3:58 AM UTC

What the Fly Thought

On a hot hot day nothing better than sweet sticky rice coconut milk a big ripe mango That, I felt, was what the fly thought he touched down onto my mango, it was so sweet, pouring saccharine sweat ripe slabs of yellow smorgasborg endless pleasure of sugar mango flesh it seemed good to the fly Across the water, pressing over the mountains, opaque threads of rain, like slim tornadoes twisting ash into the clouds moved this way things never looked good for the fly He ate nonstop, boozed up on mango an unlimited supply of yellow stuff he gained weight by the second there was no point in stopping the more juice the mango sweat the stickier its meat the more mango the drunk fly ate, the further he sank into its flesh he was stuck, flailed his stupid legs in the air as if more flies coming would rather help him than eat juicy golden mango feast he died there, I think the monsoon would make sure of it I tossed the mango, sticky rice the styrofoam plate thinking it spoiled, fearing the rain

34

Oh, Progress! We found you at the back of The movie theater, spidered around a boy And we watched. Progress, couldn’t you Wait til the previews were over? At least we could tell he was gentle. Which reminds me of the story of the father Who beat his son until the son Could beat back, and after the son Killed his father he went cross country Beating everyone on the way Beating the mailman, the bar back, the students He kept on traveling until he knew he was Unbeatable And he traveled more and went on beating When he met his dad in down in Santa Fe They sat down to drinks and talked About beatings and beatings Then they kept traveling West. Yes, Progress you were a ***** girl Ignoring whatever went up on the screen. 18 seconds of mutilated armies and a Noble Charmer’s Ascent to the throne. 17 seconds of painstaking laughter and a fat man. 19 seconds of a young man’s rise to success His defeats, resilience, his ceaseless winking And his moral fiscal triumph in the end. 16 seconds of naughty men in suits drinking highballs. For a movie theater, the chandelier was immense. Dangling, finely cut glass Suspended over the audience, crystals tapering Down to rows of translucent points.

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Apr 26, 2011

Apr 26, 2011 at 1:54 AM UTC

The Case for Socialism

Oh, Progress! We found you at the back of The movie theater, spidered around a boy And we watched. Progress, couldn’t you Wait til the previews were over? At least we could tell he was gentle. Which reminds me of the story of the father Who beat his son until the son Could beat back, and after the son Killed his father he went cross country Beating everyone on the way Beating the mailman, the bar back, the students He kept on traveling until he knew he was Unbeatable And he traveled more and went on beating When he met his dad in down in Santa Fe They sat down to drinks and talked About beatings and beatings Then they kept traveling West. Yes, Progress you were a ***** girl Ignoring whatever went up on the screen. 18 seconds of mutilated armies and a Noble Charmer’s Ascent to the throne. 17 seconds of painstaking laughter and a fat man. 19 seconds of a young man’s rise to success His defeats, resilience, his ceaseless winking And his moral fiscal triumph in the end. 16 seconds of naughty men in suits drinking highballs. For a movie theater, the chandelier was immense. Dangling, finely cut glass Suspended over the audience, crystals tapering Down to rows of translucent points.

31

Before I knew you I thought you’d changed, too Thank you, you proved me wrong We made plans, they ended It was good we wanted You said you should be moving on Without any warning I woke that morning When you were gone Left alone, my plans remain the same: I’m here to do good, it’s not my choice The cards were dealt, I’ll play my hand— I’m fine this is no sacrifice But since I’ve been here My problem seems clear— A sickness metronomed The volunteer’s life Is filled with small fights But my disease has blown Into war with ***** An acid stomach And no connection home I see it, believe it, that decency persists This place is not what it is, but what we’ve made it We’ve learned to give and take the bad and good But to see ourselves outside ourselves is how we’ll change it A place with palm trees Dead farms and disease In my students I saw a pain that They didn’t know yet Would break them as they grew And these ignored ones These poorly born ones They had no need for hope Yet before I knew them They gave me more than They took to feed their own I thought I knew what they could show That good escapes all circumstance But though I help them, I cannot love them My strength’s abandoned romance And still I’m wretching My sickness spreading It’s in my gut I see your face in The ripened rice which They have begun to cut In the evenings I walk what once were green fields Now dirt-blonde husks That stab the air The color of your hair My stomach churns Hope is useless And I’ve abused it I think I’ll leave it on its own But I keep working The sickness lurking Well, that’s how hardship’s earned

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Apr 26, 2011

Apr 26, 2011 at 1:54 AM UTC

The Sickness

Before I knew you I thought you’d changed, too Thank you, you proved me wrong We made plans, they ended It was good we wanted You said you should be moving on Without any warning I woke that morning When you were gone Left alone, my plans remain the same: I’m here to do good, it’s not my choice The cards were dealt, I’ll play my hand— I’m fine this is no sacrifice But since I’ve been here My problem seems clear— A sickness metronomed The volunteer’s life Is filled with small fights But my disease has blown Into war with ***** An acid stomach And no connection home I see it, believe it, that decency persists This place is not what it is, but what we’ve made it We’ve learned to give and take the bad and good But to see ourselves outside ourselves is how we’ll change it A place with palm trees Dead farms and disease In my students I saw a pain that They didn’t know yet Would break them as they grew And these ignored ones These poorly born ones They had no need for hope Yet before I knew them They gave me more than They took to feed their own I thought I knew what they could show That good escapes all circumstance But though I help them, I cannot love them My strength’s abandoned romance And still I’m wretching My sickness spreading It’s in my gut I see your face in The ripened rice which They have begun to cut In the evenings I walk what once were green fields Now dirt-blonde husks That stab the air The color of your hair My stomach churns Hope is useless And I’ve abused it I think I’ll leave it on its own But I keep working The sickness lurking Well, that’s how hardship’s earned

60

I. You know what it’s like It’s the carpet pulled away It’s the hole beneath II. Smile, smile, you’ve got to If the truth is smirking at you It’s the truth you’ve known III. Draped over your skin An abysmal sour void drips Insecurities IV. As the fog rolls in Your breath comes out steam, pushing Cloud into more cloud V. Your breath and the fog Watch you. Ships pull in to dock Their ghoulish noses VI. A loose mooring rope Stray ship’s vein, searching the fog For all the lost blood VII. Good, you’re on board. Some- Where beneath you, hot pistons Swing furiously.

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Jan 3, 2011

Jan 3, 2011 at 3:45 AM UTC

Several Haikus for Doubt

I. You know what it’s like It’s the carpet pulled away It’s the hole beneath II. Smile, smile, you’ve got to If the truth is smirking at you It’s the truth you’ve known III. Draped over your skin An abysmal sour void drips Insecurities IV. As the fog rolls in Your breath comes out steam, pushing Cloud into more cloud V. Your breath and the fog Watch you. Ships pull in to dock Their ghoulish noses VI. A loose mooring rope Stray ship’s vein, searching the fog For all the lost blood VII. Good, you’re on board. Some- Where beneath you, hot pistons Swing furiously.

21

It should be there, the sea It was clear by how the sky bloomed up ahead It was standing up for us Down the road, shoulder blades spread It’s face turned and looking out over the water Not ignoring us, but we could understand There were things to be seen We drove up the road Dune trees thinned ahead under Blots of royal blue Staining the horizon A painting to distract us from each other I looked and you said nothing And you looked, saw nothing We were driving to the water The sky’s blue skin stretched and paled Overhead and threats teased our breath Lingering on brine air Waiting for us past the coastal brush Past the pale browns and green We would be there soon

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Dec 26, 2010

Dec 26, 2010 at 9:33 PM UTC

Navigating a Way to the Sea, the Sky Swelled

It should be there, the sea It was clear by how the sky bloomed up ahead It was standing up for us Down the road, shoulder blades spread It’s face turned and looking out over the water Not ignoring us, but we could understand There were things to be seen We drove up the road Dune trees thinned ahead under Blots of royal blue Staining the horizon A painting to distract us from each other I looked and you said nothing And you looked, saw nothing We were driving to the water The sky’s blue skin stretched and paled Overhead and threats teased our breath Lingering on brine air Waiting for us past the coastal brush Past the pale browns and green We would be there soon

21

It was a weird hour when the sun towered To be slick with moonshine Cozied shirtless in a rope hammock Belly-down like my six drunk buddies Living loose and talking sweet To bottles now empty of ***** So what is there to do? Nothing, and that’s a cold fact for high noon In summer, season of mumbly toasting But when the humble glug-glug-glugging Is done with, I’ll tell you, you Have not licked liquor, not done your part It’s us who got the moonshine start Today, you turned your back on white whiskey, yes We did the work and if it should hurt I apologize we didn’t want to offend If it’s the alcohol or if it’s the heat I can’t tell But who knows why blood boils? I can see that good-natured drinking Is the drunk man’s toil But we’re workers at heart, aren’t we? And not many are better than us Except for maybe the rice Slumped over its stalks, fat on moonshine Cure-all for the sick mind Friend to all comers on a humid day The clear sticky juice that burns all the way down

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Dec 26, 2010

Dec 26, 2010 at 9:31 PM UTC

Moonshine Summer

It was a weird hour when the sun towered To be slick with moonshine Cozied shirtless in a rope hammock Belly-down like my six drunk buddies Living loose and talking sweet To bottles now empty of ***** So what is there to do? Nothing, and that’s a cold fact for high noon In summer, season of mumbly toasting But when the humble glug-glug-glugging Is done with, I’ll tell you, you Have not licked liquor, not done your part It’s us who got the moonshine start Today, you turned your back on white whiskey, yes We did the work and if it should hurt I apologize we didn’t want to offend If it’s the alcohol or if it’s the heat I can’t tell But who knows why blood boils? I can see that good-natured drinking Is the drunk man’s toil But we’re workers at heart, aren’t we? And not many are better than us Except for maybe the rice Slumped over its stalks, fat on moonshine Cure-all for the sick mind Friend to all comers on a humid day The clear sticky juice that burns all the way down

27

The Gopher was born Underground. He spent so much Of his life there. His eyes never adjusted To the lack of light, he simply Tunneled in the dark, half-blind. He never knew the color Of his fur (it was brown, the same color As the dirt he lived in (whose color He never knew either)), but he assumed It was black. While ambling through The black (brown) soil, it so happened That the plump and innocent Gopher Unwittingly clawed his way to The surface. His dwarfish eyes scanned the fairway Laid out beneath him. It was in that brief moment That he witnessed the difference Between rough and fairway, saw white sand traps Scoop out the sides of hills, and first watched Red and yellow oak leaves Drift to the ground. And for this short while the Gopher was awestruck, Riveted to the spot. As the lawnmower’s blades Swept closer, the Gopher could not move at all; and in An instant, he returned to The endless black he had come from.

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Dec 4, 2010

Dec 4, 2010 at 5:05 AM UTC

A Gopher's Death

The Gopher was born Underground. He spent so much Of his life there. His eyes never adjusted To the lack of light, he simply Tunneled in the dark, half-blind. He never knew the color Of his fur (it was brown, the same color As the dirt he lived in (whose color He never knew either)), but he assumed It was black. While ambling through The black (brown) soil, it so happened That the plump and innocent Gopher Unwittingly clawed his way to The surface. His dwarfish eyes scanned the fairway Laid out beneath him. It was in that brief moment That he witnessed the difference Between rough and fairway, saw white sand traps Scoop out the sides of hills, and first watched Red and yellow oak leaves Drift to the ground. And for this short while the Gopher was awestruck, Riveted to the spot. As the lawnmower’s blades Swept closer, the Gopher could not move at all; and in An instant, he returned to The endless black he had come from.

25

As with any person that comes to the city others will say of him that he came to be where the action is, looking for his share of the spoils but the truth is, he came to put on his suit and toil more than most newcomers here he knew already what skyscrapers were: a daywatch to guard the sun from you and leave you long shadows to walk through— even on his shaded way to the ad firms he slides on his sunglasses, he squirms through the crowds relishing a moment of thick silence in a packed elevator, as if sent on a mission to happy anonymity— but to die at this point would be a cliché he thinks, and goes to the shiner to shine his shoes black black, color of the pavement, the suit, the tie and the hat black, the color of the plush bruise in an apricot’s skin, the fruit he adores taking his time to pick out the finest, juiciest, softest, the freshest but this man! you would never know it seeing him walk in the street seeing his sunglasses over his eyes— it’s only apricots that separate his from yours or mine barely two inches of sugary meat and some skin to get stuck in the teeth eventually spat onto the sidewalk— rubbed by passing shoe soles into a grayish spot

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Nov 29, 2010

Nov 29, 2010 at 5:18 AM UTC

City Dweller

As with any person that comes to the city others will say of him that he came to be where the action is, looking for his share of the spoils but the truth is, he came to put on his suit and toil more than most newcomers here he knew already what skyscrapers were: a daywatch to guard the sun from you and leave you long shadows to walk through— even on his shaded way to the ad firms he slides on his sunglasses, he squirms through the crowds relishing a moment of thick silence in a packed elevator, as if sent on a mission to happy anonymity— but to die at this point would be a cliché he thinks, and goes to the shiner to shine his shoes black black, color of the pavement, the suit, the tie and the hat black, the color of the plush bruise in an apricot’s skin, the fruit he adores taking his time to pick out the finest, juiciest, softest, the freshest but this man! you would never know it seeing him walk in the street seeing his sunglasses over his eyes— it’s only apricots that separate his from yours or mine barely two inches of sugary meat and some skin to get stuck in the teeth eventually spat onto the sidewalk— rubbed by passing shoe soles into a grayish spot

28

Fires are unbiased— They burn what suits their mood. I like to do my running In the morning, before The mosquitoes start their work. During the dry season, you Would think it unsafe— Roads crowded by vulnerable Yellow stalks of rice, long since Harvested—but the trash Is burning all the same. By the time I’ve finished my run, I am coughing, and the mosquitoes Are dead before leaving the water. At night, if you are lost And alone, the fires— Four feet high and stretching for The lower tips of eucalyptus— Will light the road for you. Do not walk near them. Near the school Between dying trunks of banana Trees, three men in jeans stoke a fire— Reduced to shades Of their former selves, the long, burned Banana leaves lay withered At the white center of the fire. Much to their amusement, A few students have fashioned Swords of the live banana leaves Not yet touched by the flame And are fighting to the death. Not often, but certain days, (particularly The hot ones) I Ask myself— What am I doing here? We drink whiskey from the bottle On a night off and Stand by the river. In the overgrowth on the other side Far-off fires twinkle— A reminder—things burn Over there, too.

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Nov 29, 2010

Nov 29, 2010 at 5:17 AM UTC

Fire Season

Fires are unbiased— They burn what suits their mood. I like to do my running In the morning, before The mosquitoes start their work. During the dry season, you Would think it unsafe— Roads crowded by vulnerable Yellow stalks of rice, long since Harvested—but the trash Is burning all the same. By the time I’ve finished my run, I am coughing, and the mosquitoes Are dead before leaving the water. At night, if you are lost And alone, the fires— Four feet high and stretching for The lower tips of eucalyptus— Will light the road for you. Do not walk near them. Near the school Between dying trunks of banana Trees, three men in jeans stoke a fire— Reduced to shades Of their former selves, the long, burned Banana leaves lay withered At the white center of the fire. Much to their amusement, A few students have fashioned Swords of the live banana leaves Not yet touched by the flame And are fighting to the death. Not often, but certain days, (particularly The hot ones) I Ask myself— What am I doing here? We drink whiskey from the bottle On a night off and Stand by the river. In the overgrowth on the other side Far-off fires twinkle— A reminder—things burn Over there, too.

43

we play with a retired professional but none of the other kids mind— his alcoholism has gotten the better of his muscle memory and god doesn’t he look bad the ball is an old piece of garbage made from a kind of industry plastic half-flayed alive by loving kicks that expose the moldy gray rubber inner- sphere like some soft eyeball and, behind one of the goals, the boy who plays goalkeeper only on Wednesdays lounges like a pimply Greek sculpture— unable to move as an epileptic fit lazily puppeteers his body while the players pass the ball into his gut and I step aside, too— my stomach aches so badly for the crispy joy of cold cereal I can’t play— some days are like that—shed of their seriousness because it’s more fun to play without a defense even though we’re always losing **** it I just scored a goal!

0

Nov 29, 2010

Nov 29, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC

Soccer Game

we play with a retired professional but none of the other kids mind— his alcoholism has gotten the better of his muscle memory and god doesn’t he look bad the ball is an old piece of garbage made from a kind of industry plastic half-flayed alive by loving kicks that expose the moldy gray rubber inner- sphere like some soft eyeball and, behind one of the goals, the boy who plays goalkeeper only on Wednesdays lounges like a pimply Greek sculpture— unable to move as an epileptic fit lazily puppeteers his body while the players pass the ball into his gut and I step aside, too— my stomach aches so badly for the crispy joy of cold cereal I can’t play— some days are like that—shed of their seriousness because it’s more fun to play without a defense even though we’re always losing **** it I just scored a goal!

21