Winamop.com Poetry on the internet

Antonio

Chow mein he said - eyes dropping south

double-checked his bike's front-wheel, upset and flat - he smiled -

he'd make that Sligo bus by 10,

analyzing Bayern Munich a lot those last few weeks

since March fell into splinters April made its ark from,

gold-plate speckles nieces turned to wrap-dresses nephews’ holy communions struggled to overshadow.

He's a shaman bringing Bavaria a freshly hunted Champions League,

Catholic girls something Zappa was too quick

on the lurid draw to see.

Back tire's nearly flat too he conceded, work-up some voodoo potion I said - I knew he could -

Sligo bus tickling a cloud-fat horizon,

nephews and nieces hoarding spare change

It Tore My Heart to Pieces When I Heard the Levee Ain't Gonna Break No More

Though there stands a brilliant white light on a bloody blue night,

water's voice harvests pidgin talk amongst reeds,

smoke slipping amongst gangling vegetation which withers that silence,

makes it spread its wingspans, shape its shapes as God prepared to forgive vicious waters.

That made me weep for two days more, then dry land came,

sung songs burned from gangling cities.

I made a rope-bridge from weeds I'd plucked after killing a coal-eyed cobra,

placed across the delta and hoped God's music could give me ballast,

a pan of eggs made warm and over-easy. Folks who howl at the moon start coming out at 9,

early show tonight, voting-day’s tomorrow,

the waiter arrived in the nick of time with the complimentary mints,

he knew every proton was a work of art

Benny

Calabasas, California, July 12, 2020

Sun steals darkness from his day,

leaves him nothing to mourn - all is stark,

like a checkbook sitting in a fire. I went to his funeral,

people’s hopes soft like shoes scorch-marked,

drifting on the cold-white of morning. I swore the light was him,

coming for his wardrobe, his pistol, his biker jacket or a deck of cards,

maybe a shave too,

when he meets his grandpappy,

mowing a lawn outside Tupelo,

missing the twenty-seven by three times the number five,

and afraid I’ll forget him as I pull the covers over me wishing it was still winter