Loss Poem #93

This poem was in the South African lit journal New Contrast in 2008, vol 141: 32-33.

Loss poem #93

I walk the streets of this African town

with women carrying boxes of oranges on their heads

and the road a mad chaos of slow strollers

oblivious of two ton tins captained by crazed pirates.

Every day, this is my walk to the post office

to open yet another empty box.

The day has been fine so far but now,

now the weight returns

like another bloody cold front coming on from Cape Town

and I miss you and see you walking the streets of that American town

so far from here, so far.

I don’t know why this agony returns every day as the clock strikes one

or why it’s so difficult to reunite with you

but more than miles separate us, and its

not so much the ocean but the obstacles

not so much the continents but the constraints

and as I walk through this African town

on a sunny summer’s day with dozens of bright bandanas

blazing like flowers in a meadow

I feel like a fly trapped in a web

and my heart sinks like some stone

into the muck of some polluted pool.

What is this spider that has captured me

and bound me in its threads?

The spider is called paradox and the prime rate

and woven into this web of loss,

I don’t stand a fucking chance.

When Love Dies

Poem was published in Chiron Review, December 2011, if I recall. Written in 2005 or 6.

When Love Dies

When love dies it’s not like a gunshot to the head

or the heart.

It’s not like the crash of tangled tin and gleaming chrome

of a 4 wheel hack or a silver bullet fallen from the sky.

It’s not like a mortar lobbed into a foxhole or

the glint of a blade and a line of blood along a slit neck

or peeled scalp.

It’s not like a shiv stuck in your stomach to disembowel you

and let your innards fall like rotten fruit onto a stained soil.

It’s not like the whiteout and mushroom cloud of a megaton delivery

from demonic fools

or the rush and rage of flame thrown from flyers over the jungles.

No, it’s not like that.

Love dies slowly and unseen, taking its time, taking its toll,

creeping like a vine in the attic

or a nest of ants diligently working in the walls

or a fungus eating out the insides of an old tree,

and you only realize it’s gone when its already been dead for quite some time

and the glorious once-tree finally falls in the forest

and spills its dust onto the moldy leaves and musty humus below.

No Title

Walking down the street I saw a sign that said ‘Live Jazz’. It was like an oasis after crossing dune after dune of desert. I went on in.

            There were three tables that housed people and two waiters stood by the bar.

            I walked up to the bartender.

            “I’ll have a Red Tail Ale and a shot of Jack Daniel’s. Where’s the band?”

            “They left. They’re not here anymore.”

            He walked off to get my drinks.

            Over at the three tables the people laughed, caught in their bubble. The rest of the room was dark.

            “Eighteen bucks.” said the bartender as he clunked my drinks onto the bar.

            “Phew…” I wasn’t used to prices like that. I looked out the window into the night. “Does Billie work here anymore?”

            “No, she’s gone.”

            “Monk?”

            “Gone.”

            “Miles?”

            “Gone.”

            “Look, last time I was in here all these people were here…Duke, Rahsaan, Wayne, Tony, Sonny, Bird, Art…what’s up?”

            “Gone.”

            He shrugged his shoulders and padded off along the planks.

            I was quick to down the Jack and chug my beer. I slammed the glasses down onto the oak and rose to leave, knocking over the stool. At least there’d be one other casualty from this tragedy.

            Outside on the street I took a deep breath of the winter air. Lights were being doused behind me, one by one.

            I looked off down the street in the direction I needed to go and it was even darker down there.