In a Pie Pan
Act I
the only thing (lurking) around the corner
is an ice-cream truck, exhibiting skin
(perforated) and a Mendelian
pattern of inheritance, Pet Rabbit
(doused in lighter fluid, lit on fire) by men
in respirator sand (white moon suits
imagined by a set of monozygotic
twins) stuffed by pieces into large steel drums
(followed by charcoal) using jerky eye
movements on behalf of a remarkable
little bunny man. His attempts to build
a nuclear reactor (in his mother's
shed) defied anticipation (by
increasing depravation) and growing fur
over scars (on his back) wearing
a mask (in the shed) which leads to
a pathogenic buildup of gene products,
and sharp startled movements of noise
(the direction of isotope production)
breaking codes for a potassium ion
(ray tube) dampening the acts of electrical
activitiy while enjoying a snuggle
and a snooze (bombarded with neutrons)
sustained by a chain reaction of poly
tri-nucleotide repeaters, leading
to anticipation. He opens his ears
to clear just a bit of wax and radioactive
isotope (americium-241
found in smoke detectors and postmortem tissue)
undermining our efforts to understand
Act II
his ear canals, not having the protection
of his ears (inside a hollow block
of lead) a tiny hole prick (or remorse)
shaped like a renaissance of interest
in late night jazz and whiskey (alpha rays)
streaming out of tissue, used in conjunction
with a variety of technologies
and probes (more sensitive to sudden motion)
and noise. Now that his ears have fallen off
the drums are coated with a compound
of thorium-232 (amenable bliss
for therapeutic agents who long to be
a house rabbit bombarded with neutrons
producing uranium-233,
which is fissionable, and appears to be
changing into global dopamine) strong enough
to get neutered and begin visiting
junkyards and antique stores in search of
radium-coated clocks (and the status
of serotonergic markers) in postmortem
tissue. He is trying to adapt to life
without his ears. He bought a clock
for $10, decreased the prefrontal
cortex of test subjects (left untreated
with anti-psychotic drugs) ran through
a fire (combusted from rabbit scat
dried into a salt form) identified
the mechanisms of rabbit society
(home care) and pulverised with a hammer
his delineated ability
Act III
to bind nicotine and muscatel
into big chunks of skin and fur (the neutron
bullets of his zygote gun, now moving
too fast) proving he is able to enjoy
being with people (small foil-wrapped cubes
of thorium ash and uranium powder
held together with duct tape) close to death,
(blackened and reeking) a mysterious
gray powder (small disks and mercury switches)
in a pie pan (a Pyrex cup) a milk crate
(Silence, followed by stupendous cheers)
LOS HUESOS
(the bones)
by
I sit with the dead tonight. I have
brought my father's tobacco and
my grandfather's beer. Between
their tombstones, I light a sparkler
and (with eyes open) imagine them
standing and dancing before me.
So I get up and dance with them,
turning, spinning, and falling to the
ground. As I catch my breath, I look
up to see their smiles shine down
like porcelain stars. They point at me
"There's our boy, he's come to
drink and smoke with us. He loves
the lost ones with a heart as big as
heaven and inhales our graves as if
they were fields of red roses."
The beer widens my eyes, makes
the deep night opaque. Revealing
a tribe of dead lovers who protect
us from devils and demons, insuring
our first communions and last rites,
ready to welcome us back home
with cold soft hands.
The graveyeard is full. The living
and their dearly departed sit in tight
family circles telling old stories that
recall ancestors whose names have
now been given to babies.
We pass funeral cards, rosaries, and
wedding rings among us - tiny monuments
to people whose portraits hang along the stairs leading to the cellar where we make
our candles, crush hot peppers, and shed
our tears.
We slice lemon cake, eat chicken breasts,
and drink tequila in the Cemeterio de Santa
Rosa. The ghosts are all brown, except mine.
Pale faces who've passed over - German,
pot bellied, serious white people, who,
in life, had things to accomplish.
We sing and dance to all the dead gone.
Mock death and remember a cast of bit
players who slip into our dreams with
whispers just before dawn.
As I pour my tequila into the earth I see
their spirit mouths opena nd skeletons
rise to dance three feet above the ground.
White vapor swirling like clouds. Sweet
misty blankets that embrace the tombs
of my family.
(First appeared in Anthology / Nominated for Pushcard Prize)
