"perdomo" poems
Recluse
beneath congestion of cigarette smoke
and spirits
a crippled voice
deteriorates
His mornings are bleak;
Rise
to the sink
to the shower
to the wardrobe
to the door
to meet the day
Slacks, overcoat, and loafers
topped off with some novelty tie
from the local drug store
He coasts along the brick-stone walk-ways
careful not to place his feet upon
cracks or cross a path with a black cat
A superstitious man he is
a white rabbits foot tucked beneath
his ankle socks
a turkey wishbone key-chain clanging against
his satin-lined pocket
and a four-leaf clover preserved in
saran-wrap pinned against his chest
With each stride
he nears the corner market
and purchases a pack of Perdomo
along with a bottle of unlabeled *****
concealing it bellow the buttons of the coat
He then exchanges with the cashier and exists
His journey leads him around the block
and passed pedestrians
only to be reunited with his stoop
The cold concrete is inviting
he sets himself in
on the third step
and prods his pockets
removing his lite and Perdomo's
for better
use
aflame they go
between crackled lips
Greeted with the sour beverage
his face molds like dry leather
crinkles and all
in reaction to the addicting
bitterness
His eyes pick out people from a crowd
the business man who hurries on by
to important to give a hoot
the youth of who laugh in mockery
yet to prideful to admit they're foolish
the tourist twisting the map above their face
searching corner streets a sign
the woman who bustles her child through
avoiding contact
with the man
who sits on the stoop
Not person goes by that
he wishes he were
he is perfect
perfectly content
in his subliminal life
The smoke rises and falls
from his throat
he wheezes
averting from his train of thought
it wasn't important either way
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
Where I’m from,
unlike what Willie Perdomo says,
she might know
where I was from.
Where I’m from,
we love the breath of whispers.
My mom would sing and rhyme
in the ears of my little sisters.
She would hum and mumble,
my dad would whistle,
they would never grumble
until we fall asleep.
Where I’m from,
we greet with
"guten morgen"
to everyone in the breakfast’s table,
and we smile and say,
"takk for maten"
for those who serve the food.
Where I’m from,
we play with colors for Holi,
we fast Ramadan,
we celebrate Christmas.
Where I’m from,
we wish you Happy birthday
in more than 90 languages,
and these are the advantages;
we make you a strawberry cake,
we even make you a card,
but we might throw you in a lake,
or prank you very hard.
Where I’m from,
we say,
“Ni hao ma?”
For the person living next door,
when we leave
we say,
“hasta luego mi amor.”
Where I’m from,
we love the breath of whispers,
she whispers,
“habibi, waheshtini.”
I reply,
"I missed you more,"
and add
“Ma armastan sind.”
Where I’m from,
the smell of your kisses
plays with my senses
so,
I could hear your hair,
I could taste your beauty,
I could see your wintry smell
and I could touch the echo of
I love you
spelled out from your mouth.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC