HOW A POEM LEADS TO MURDER

I hadn’t read the poem “My Brother Killing My Brother” in years—2004 to be exact. The Detroit poet said he had no idea it would apply to U.S. soldiers. I guess timing is everything when it comes to publishing.

I brought the poem inside a correctional facility, its true meaning hidden within the pages of a now defunct literary journal, a meaning soon to be stretched within the confines of three concertina-wired fences and neighboring gun towers.

“I know this poet’s brother!” the classroom tutor says, chuckles. He parks his wheelchair near my desk.

I have a confession to make: I’m not passionate enough about poetry, unless, of course, it’s confessional poets validating their words through extreme measures. Still, I listen.

The tutor tells me how the poet’s brother pummeled a man with a baseball bat, how the poet’s brother didn’t know his victim, how the cops discovered the poet’s brother sleeping in a field not too far from the car he’d left idling on the shoulder of the road, how that car idled until it ran out of gas. “James,” the tutor remarks, “blacked out. The cops woke him up. He hadn’t a clue about what he’d done.” More laughter.

Of course I have no way of substantiating any of this; I have the words of a prisoner confined to a wheelchair.

I study the words, I stop at the subtitle: (in a series of poems denouncing violence). I read about images of exposed brain: tofu in Merlot sauce, feta cheese & beet juice on a salad of sticky hair, white chips of shattered skull…

I’m mesmerized by the words, by the totality of it all. And I’m a bit shocked as well. I feel like a detective assessing the crime scene. Who is this Detroit poet in question? I read parts of the byline: Joseph Ferrari, business owner of Leadfoot Press. If I wanted to know more, I’d contact the poet. I’d start by asking, “Do you have a brother?” Not that I need to—the poem has done its job, the poem is that good.

LOST, FOUND & CLARITY OF NIGHT

Another happy childhood memory, another “Young Author’s Award” (1973), and another disturbing page from a much larger work. Perhaps Julie (see her comment on July 8th’s post) has a valid point—I’m beginning to see and hear the poetry; the words are jumping off the prison stationary.









There’s no need for commentary here, but if you’d like to read my flash fiction story, “The Sober Truth about Tyler & Zachary on Bickerstaff Street” then "X" marks the spot. Also, as the competition “wines” down (deliberate spelling, pun intended), I’ll give you the links to my favorites.

WHEN A SUBURBANITE SUFFERS

There’s decay in the Motor City; it’s in the roots of my teeth,
stuck like taffy, I gnaw and pull at the yellow tape. There’s
fencing too, down the south side of a dead-end street—a factory
caught in my braces, Everywhere: foreclosed homes and empty
lots, worse than unfilled cavities. I gum Better Mades and dream
of a stimulus package in a brown paper bag placed on the console
of my Chevy. Whiskey and Vernors, for medicinal purposes,
me traveling, no tires, just cement blocks and fragmite. Pain too,
in my jaw, raw raw pain, a telling sign that I’m alive. I step into a
blacktop oven and smile my jagged smile and scale the chain link
fence and yell to my fellow Detroiters, “We must organize!”






Logo contest here! Winner gets $50.

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Congrats to George Dila for his second place finish in Literal-Latte's short story contest!

POLISHING APPLES

When an automobile is shrink-wrapped and you’re not
in on the joke (no time with a half-hour lunch),
it’s okay, because the owner supports the UAW.

It’s in the purchase;
It comes from word of mouth:
Tell so-and-so to tell so-and-so to tell so-and-so
that they can attend their local union meeting
as long as they ask for permission first.

You’re not immune; you’re not a straw boss;
you’re not a snoopervisor; they don’t need to beg
they’re hand fed and led by the navigator

of the sealed-tight vehicle, the one with
the passengers who’ve rolled down their windows
& finger-punched holes through cellophane
gasping and peering down a desolate highway.

So you highjack the steering wheel and crash
through a white picket fence, into an orchard,
your hands deflecting flying bark and York Imperial fastballs.

It’s called a U-Pick, which U-Do, placing the forbidden
fruit on the jokester’s desk to help fight his addiction
& keep him busy, polishing apples, polishing apples …
until they shine blood red, until the blue ink dries,
before the Chief Union Steward mouths his pre-ordained speech.

POLAROID

Someone’s fingers are itchin’
to pull the trigger. Call it:
The chemical rub-out before
the sun does its work. Still,
a middle class family
appears (such a rarity
these days). The dull colors
frozen like a Ted Turner classic.
What happened that night is momentarily
forgotten; They are ready
to celebrate with two candles lit,
a four, a five, sunk into Mother’s
cake. The youngest boy emerges
from solitary confinement, his wish
exhaled, gone in a flash.

WHEN YOU’RE AT THE WAX MUSEUM

Dad will paint you a picture of potential
in one fluid brushstroke, years later
Mom will still crack you an egg
burn you some toast.

But don’t even think about that magazine rack,
it’s unrealistic and downright rude.
This isn’t a fertility clinic, you know,
and don’t ask about the son
who went to prison.

If you do:

Mom will say,
But it’s not like that,
someone boxed him in
at an early age.

If the son in question could join in,
he’d blame those damn Rose Art crayons & coloring books,
so unimaginative, when you stay within the lines.

Mom will pour some coffee and butter your toast.
Dad will talk about the massive layoffs in the auto industry.

One son will survive yet another round of cuts,
while the other son, smelling of wax,
will wait.

UNTITLED POEM #44

I thought I saw myself
Before I was born,
My minds-eye playing tricks on me.

Where’s the ultrasound?
Where’s the smoky-white fetus?
The sucking of a transparent thumb?

Insecurity develops much later,
The ghost saturates the image.
I scan it anyway.

But I know better.
The date’s all wrong.
1962, a year too early.
October, the month afterward.

So I’m turned around. Breech born.
Looking inward, instead of outward.
Rolling back time.

Call it a “do-over.”

President Kennedy completes his term.

The celebration of my arrival postponed by a day.

Still, I watch and wait.

The matching floor lamps serve as incubators
I refuse to race toward the gate.
Then I discover my flight’s been changed.

Call it “9-10.”

There’s a slight tug on my ankle,
And a calculated slap, with momentary blackouts,
Before Father smokes his Cuban cigar.

TIME ONCE UPON US

Inspired by the Governor of California and Tookie Williams.










These children's books they sell
inject you with their murderous grip.
Pages flutter yonder;
mob your throat.

Quick, here's a ladle, start scooping,
spoon your Cheerios Little Boy Blue,
there's no time for perusing:

Twinkling shooting stars
dodging bullets
like a virgin
scathed and snuffed.

Scan the headlines:

Most Celebrated
death row inmate
put to death.

Makes sense doesn't it?

When you're unforgiving,
when the ink rubs off
and you finish your tea
and you ride into the sunset
on your unregistered motorbike
a sidecar, an outlaw, an accident
a big fat lip.

Presenting:
Politics and Hollywood
Crips and Bloods and Big Dippers
touched and terminated for the very first time.

Put to bed
they'll be back

once upon us.

YOU'RE NOT JK ROWLING!

Once again, I've attempted to please the crowd with a poetry reading.

THE APPRENTICE

All yolked out in spring’s flooded mulch
Kneecaps unhinged, tea bag exposed, palms flat
High-fiving earth, ground’s breath steeped
on Blue Blockers bent
over your bridge.

You took your chance crosscutting Wall Street
Got Humpity-Dumpitied, hedge fund expired
Your version of “The Donald” with a hairline fracture
Your woodchuck toupee clogging up the Ace of Spades
Teased out of your sleeve in a child-like manner
that no longer responds.

They split your wig
Fed you the pig

So you folded—
Like Kenny Rogers
Singing:

This one went to the market

—accompanied by dueling banjoes and
one juice-harp delivering the final crescendo:

You’re fired.

RESUSCITATING POETRY

I may not be a big fan of poetry; however, I'm willing to do CPR if necessary. Here's my first ever poetry reading. I think I'll take a day off from blogging.