Donny and I Try Looking at a Statue of Sonny Bono

Donny: 

It almost seems to have been placed here
On its own and holds still while reality glides
Around it. Beauty glows within you from it
And holds.

But now the morning is grayed
And I can only see brilliant chapels
Swallowed by the eventual
Burst of the sun, Mona Lisa crumbling
And becoming unseen. These images
Bloom from this statue’s now
Oxidized face.

And there was the creator staring
At the statue’s golden face and promised
Refuge from the fading.

Me:

Jesus, calm down, it’s just a statue.

Donny:

You’re right Jim, it’s just a statue
That cannot truly fulfill its promise
Of eternity.

Me:

. . .

Christmas Poem

At six Grandpa’s hands were calloused.
He leaped onto beaches, over wires,
dying to meet evil’s swelling.
Four brothers dead. He limped
to the factory for decades.

Grandpa thrusts his rant
from his aching
lungs. Mother listens
every Christmas
about the War and his
glories.

(Left in silence is the nigger’s
teeth planted on the lawn,
and her brother.)

This generation doesn’t know!
He settles on the couch, coughs
hard into his handkerchief.
Their damn ipods and gizmos!

(I watch
Grandpa’s wrinkly face.
I smile, and laugh with him.)

Mother fixes her hands
to the tree. She can’t think
about her brother being
disowned years ago.

The Hack

I walk in and Brad offers to show me another card trick; I humor him. He’s a tall, middle-aged man whose spent much of his life dedicated to one thing. Most of the time he’s morose creature, but there are more amusing instances where he turns into an animal recently released from his cage. He tries to suppress himself, modulating each word to the same volume. He hates “modern magic” which he insists isn’t really magical at all, but dangerous and nonsensical tomfoolery. But his anger isn’t most concentrated on the likes of Criss Angel, but puppet comedians. He sits his faded, black top hat onto his balding head and begins to perform.

[Unemployed magician Brad the Brilliant on the talentless prick Jeff Dunham]

The stage is his and the audience
has already collapsed into
his cum-encrusted fingers.
His hand dances in the ass
of a Southern cartoon, making the Yanks piss
with enjoyment. I like Nascar!
Oh you, oh you! But I don’t blame
the dolts in his grasp, I’m not swollen
with contempt–it’s fun
to laugh at the dirty, dumb
beer bellied cousin-fucker,
or the ancient crank who never used
a cell phone, or the Mexican.
I don’t even blame the jackass onstage,
the empty hack, rich, and poor
because of it. He will be swallowed
in dust and nothing will remain there.
He’s in his gold mansion, spending
fifteen minutes on hackneyed jokes
and the voice that will justify them.

He will be gone.
And so will you,
but great monuments
are released from the torrent
of dust and the leveling of time–
I’m not fueled with disdain, I’m not
fueled with envy. I cannot be. I have to be
focused, my hands continuously carve, unbroken
from their duties. The dummies can keep
their hacks, their fading con men, their smug asswipes, I will be forever,
if I play my cards right.

The Mother

Death throbs throughout
her body. (She pushed
the needle, and her eyes
are tethered to the empty,
white ceiling.)

Her mind clings to Michael
who’s fixated on the swings.
He is released and attacks
the playground. Why is he so
happy?
Finally, his eyes pull
away from the sand, he waves.
She tries to push a smile,
but she can tell–from his changing
face–he is learning.