Whack! Whack!
His mother’s heels click down
On to the hard wood floor
He claims to be Cinderella
His father looks down
And his first emotion is fear
For his young son’s life
It won’t be easy
He bends down
Picks him up and holds him tightly
“My beautiful son,
Be back before midnight”

Whack! Whack!
His bat strikes the baseball
For his first home run in Little League
His heart was never in it
But his father encouraged him
To try new things
And his mother is his biggest fan
He starts to notice
How tight baseball shorts are
They’re not very comfortable

Whack! Whack!
Towels leave bruises in the locker room
He laughs at his teammates
Running from his quick wrist
And wet towel
He’s the starting quarterback
And they just won states
He was voted
Homecoming king

Whack! Whack!
His heart duels against his ribs
The first time he kisses another boy
It’s nothing like the girls
There’s a new rush in his blood
His mind is in space
And his stomach in his throat

Whack! Whack!
He brings the axe down hard
Sunburnt metal splitting fibers
Sending woodchips everywhere
His father making him learn
The lesson that only hard work can teach
Nothing worth having comes easy

Whack! Whack!
The hammer comes down on the nail
As he finishes his daughter’s swing set
He watches through the window
As his husband
Hands her the first slice
Of her birthday cake
She just turned five
A number you didn’t get to see

They say when you die
Your life flashes before your eyes
They don’t say
It’s always your past

Whack! Whack!
His mother’s heels click down
On the hard wood floor
He claims to be Cinderella
His father looks down
And his first emotion is fear…

Whack! Whack!
His fists clench
Whack! Whack!
They come raining down
Whack! Whack!
He can’t seem to get away
Whack! Whack!
Why can’t you be a man
Whack! Whack!
Why can’t you be a man.
Whack! Whack!
Why can’t you be a man!

Why can’t you!?
You were his father!
And you
Were his mother!
You broke a child
When you were supposed
To build him up
So now the world
Had to bury his dreams in pieces
Shattered like glass slippers
You were afraid of him
While we
Would have loved him

His name was Zachary.
Zachary Dutro-Boggess.
I wrote your name
Onto a piece of paper
And folded it into a daisy
Because something beautiful
Had to come out of your story
Your birthday curled down
Over one of the petals
3 days before the day you died
You turned 4 years old
I wonder what you wished for
When you blew out your candles
I wonder what you wished for
When you first met God
Way too young
And he showed you
What love really was

This old man, he touched one as soon as he did they where gone.
With a **** shat ***** whack gave the man a bone this old man went walking home.

This old man, he hugged two they hit the ****** with a shoe.
With a **** shat ***** whack gave the man a bone this old man went hobbling home.

This old man, he kissed three he brushed his ***** on their knee.
With a **** shat ***** whack gave the man a bone this old man went strolling home.

This old men, he fingered four
He would have fingered a whole lot more.
With a **** shat ***** whack gave the man a bone this old man went running home.

This old man, he licked five he really wanted to **** dive.
With a **** shat ***** whack gave the man a bone this old man went crawling home.

This old man, he ****** six he ****** on all those fellows *****.
With a **** shat ***** whack gave the man a bone this old man went drooling home.

This old man, he bummed seven that gay ******* was in **** heaven.
With a **** shat ***** whack gave the man a bone this old man went driving home.

This old man, he wanked eight he chocked their chickens it was great.
With a **** shat ***** whack gave the man a bone this old man got the bus home.

This old man, he ****** nine both men and women the ***** swine.
With a **** shat ***** whack gave the man a bone this old man took a taxi home.

This old man he ****** ten soaked their ***** so he did it again.
With a **** shat ***** whack gave the man a bone this old man never went home.

For a week
a blue fly
buzzed around our apartment
subsisting on our Pomchi’s water,
kibble
and kitchen counter crumbs
and dodging attempts
by my wife to swat it.

I used to catch flies
quite easily in my palm
and release them back
to their natural estates
but since my colon surgery
the bugs are always winning.

Today,
there was a grey spider,
maybe a brown recluse,
silently gazing
at the bathtub drain.
I could not find a container
to capture it,
so I turned on the faucet
to the lowest cold
and highest flow
and watched the creepy crawly
circle the drain three times
before it vanished
into the mercies
of the Chattanooga sewers.

I was convinced  
that it could survive
by rafting itself  
onto to the nearest ****,
both a source
of refuge and sustenance,
that my Puerto Rican
family of Marine Tigers
living in Miami
(at the time
when Castro refugees
all mythically made
the 330 mile trip
on ten fallen coconut palms
thatched together,
and audaciously declared
eight street,” Calle Ocho”
and their new land,” Little Havana”)
contemptuously called,
back in my racist youth,
a “floating Cuban.”

When I came into the bedroom
my wife was waving around
her big brand-new blue fly swatter,
the one she bought at Dollar Tree.

Our Pomchi, also on the bed,
resting on her back
with her legs up in the air
and stomach joyfully exposed
was barking for a good hard belly rub.

Whack, whack, whack
went the fly swatter,
squarely hitting our little girl
in her sweet spot,
generating ******* squeals.

The blue fly,  
affectionately    
called Mike Pence
for its habit of landing
unnoticed on
any old white thing for
two minute and three seconds,
and now, a visiting family member
that had overextended its stay
more days than
were humanely bearable,
was buzzing around my wife’s head.

Its movement was noticeably slower
and when it landed on the faux leather arm
of my multi position reclining chair,
I was almost able to snag it in my palm.
Too tired to buzz afar,
it rested again on the arm,
weakly regurgitating its own spittle.

I called my wife over,  
a former professional chef
and therefore an expert
in the art of
preparing, cooking and eating
dead things,
knowing she be eager to try out
her new instrument of death.

A sure aim sent the Blue
to the skin colored **** carpet,
and in its last struggle
I started to sing inside the only
song that would be
a proper elegy:

La cu-ca- | ra-cha, la cu-ca-ra-cha
| ya no pue-de ca-mi-nar
por-que no | tie-ne, por-que le fal-tan
| las dos pa- titas "de" a-trás. —

("The cockroach, the cockroach /
can no longer walk /
because she doesn't have, because she lacks / the two hind legs to walk.”)

I imagined it
crying out
“Help me! Help me!”
like the half human,
half insect creature
caught in the spider web
at the end of that
old Vincent Price
creature feature
were death by big rock
was a mercy
compared to
arachnoid decapitation.

Whack
and the Blue’s head
was severed
from its thorax.
Whack
and its wings
flew East and West.
Whack
and its abdomen
closely followed.
Whack
and its legs
buckled under it.
Whack
a final time
to make sure
it was dead.  

My wife had
over-killed,
and the worst
cardinal sin,
had over-cooked
something that
was meant
to be tartare.

Still our Pomchi
sniffed, licked
and eventually ate
the Blue,
her smile
declaring it
the best thing
she swallowed
all week.  

For a half hour
my wife rewarded her
with the swat, swat, swat
of blue belly rubs.  

Note:
Marine Tiger was the ship that carried people from Puerto Rico, and so the white people in New York started calling all the Puerto Rican people ‘Marine Tigers.’

Throw rocks at my window,
Hold the boom box up high.
Send me on scavenger hunts,
Make me search far and wide.
Let me be your favorite song,
A tune you can never get out of your head.
Recall your fondest memories,
Those of when we first met.
Take me out to ball games,
Introduce me to all your friends.
I want to be your now and forever,
I want the cheesy moments to last a lifetime.
Take me in now and never look back,
We can have a life we create out of whack.

first line lips are false as a beach next mcarthur’s in chicago next the big blond takes the elevator down next pearl on the lip next shalimar stirs the canine **** all right I like that let’s start a new one do it what what do you have don’t **** up wheres the apostrophe ******* you’re cruel now back now whack it again whack it again I want it to go back whack it press it whack it okay new line

i want elevator i want uh i want don’t ask the bellboy for the time just take the elevator to what? to notions? to the lingerie shop? ah ******* grandma new line

all right one more time okay **** the gin-socked tongue that’s “soaked” period once again the elevator down paint the pretty tie (cough cough) thai next big buick big *** like fish put a ? after fish take it back take it back you ***** okay that’s not bad you do all right ah **** song of india in the desert at night put “” marks around song of india & desert song in capital letters hit shalimar then cadillac red lips then **** like a seashell with a gin-soaked tongue start new line

all right does mcarthur stick his socks in the bathtune at night that’s bathtub the dog howls at the moon buries it in the backyard snakes lose their skin cocoa butter slick water on the brain of the big dark blond song of india **** **** **** big fish *** big v8 you ***** keep up with me painted rocks like a pretty tie fast car long legs and a broken heel now dead no not dead yet um estee lauder goes down on price-waterhouse in a swedish bath bellboy watching this is his reflection in the mirror no silver one-sided next line

big blond trampled by elephants with wrinkled knees starch is not chic all gone shalimar stirs the k-9 **** sequined *** in the moonlight cadillac red lips hungry dog eats tail becomes himself bad dog play dead okay what do you suggest bad doggie bad comma bad comma hungry dog go for the tongue you dumb ***** keep going new line

what do cactuses(i) have??? fronds fur what are their things called new line

dog hates gin go for the breast stupid ***** good dog dry dog poor dog pour blond water of life **** yellow a thai like painted rocks period next

i want head down legs up i want sequined *** only ****** level damp dampened dampest ***** panorama **** **** **** blue blue down there feminine azure with clouds too got it odalisque in blue period have mercy on me no no new ******* line what are you filling that thing up with okay stop it for now

Who is the boy?
Sophia's father asked.

Sophia looked at him:
the greying moustache,
dark eyes,
short,  
but solid build.

A friend from work,
she said.

Her mother walked
in the background
never interfered.

What's his name?
The father asked,
examining her,
eyes searching
her features for signs
of lies or deception.

Benedict,
she replied,
good Catholic boy,
nurse.

The father
walked past her,
then circled her.

She thought of Benny
having nodded
and spoken briefly
to her parents then
had left the house.

Good ***.

Miał dobry ****,
she said to herself
in Polish,
pretending she was
talking to her father.

Not dare.

Good Catholic?
Her father said,
he come to the house
and no one to safe guard
your honour here?

We talked; had coffee,
she said,
thinking of the safe things.

Those outside
may think otherwise,
he said.

Who?
Sophia asked,
sensing her father
walking behind her,
as he did when
she was a child,
then WHACK WHACK,
he did to her as a child.

Now he just walked
around her, hands behind
his back.

Neighbours see
these things,
think what they think,
he said,
in front of her
staring at her eyes.

Those who sin, see sin,
she said,
holding herself firm,
eyeing her mother
in the background,
no words,
not a sound.

This Benedict,
he likes you?
The father asked.

Yes, he does,
she replied,
thinking of Benny
******* *******.

He must consider
how it could looks
to others,
her father said,
not come while
we are out.

She nodded,
looked at her feet,
wiggled her toes.

He may come while
we are here,
her father conceded,
eyeing her firmly,
walking away,
hands behind his back.

She breathed out
relieved
no whack
whack whack.

Many believe they know the law
Because they were arrested;
Others know how to teach
Because they too were tested.
If you have a religious question,
They attended church;
Mention you've an ache or pain,
They diagnose your hurt.
Should you bring up politics,
Republican or worse,
They'll explain Democracy
Cause they've been free since birth.
Admit your car is pinging,
Your faucets aren't behaving,
The oven isn't cooking right,
Your fridge is warm and shaking,
The air conditioner's out of whack,
Your furnace has turned blue,
They'll tell you what to do:
Change the thermo-coupler.
It's always their one answer.
Say you like this stock or bond,
An investment that's appealing,
They'll  discourse that all agents
Are cunning conniving stealing.
On Monday mention the big game,
They'll re-play, play by play,
As if you slept right through it.
If you hear a rousing band,
Attend a movie or a play,
Know-its are informed critics,
Once they were stagehands.
They pose as friends and family,
Waiting for an opening,
To disrupt with diatribe,
To display how much they know.
I know what I'm on about,
So let me advise you,
I'm a Know-It-All poet,
All I write is true.
So,
Never miss the opportunity
To keep your mouth shut too.