Red sneaker haiku

One red sneaker jut
out from beneath the white sheet
at a dead angle.

Shame Hangover

I'm still hungover from last night's anger.
I didn't sleep well -- kept tossing my sheets
this way and that -- I was hot & uncomfortable.

She barely speaks to me this morning
in the shadows of the kitchen.  We sit
in morning silence waiting for the coffee pot to finish
spitting out her caffeine.  Now she is upstairs.

I felt suffocated with stress; I panicked
& jumped from bed screaming & slapping doors.
(I'm grateful I didn't punch a hole in the wall this time)
I don't know what to do.

When the sirens go off, I have a few seconds;
the lights flash and my system erupts.
My kids always find that one red button:
DO NOT PRESS & then press it on repeat.

Last night it was constant interruptions during a movie.
Before that it was ....... I don't remember;
such is the power & course of amnesia and regret.
(I'm sitting in this shame hangover this morning)

Today will be a long day:

awkward silences
unreplied texts
shame is no response

I don't know what to do.  I sit
in my shame & wait for the sun to set
& my past has passed.

 

1959

I feel as though it is 1959 -

the still of black-and-white &

the scratch of my sartorial-splendor suit:

charcoal Stetson;

smoking a cigarette with Robert Lowell,

Rod Sterling narrating my thoughts.

These quiet days of superstition and privilege

comfort and unsettle my 2018 sensibilities.

Bourbon should be displayed in my living room:

crystal glasses surrounding a crystal carafe.

That's about all that should remain from 

this dusty era; this post-WWII movement of time

TOCK....TOCK....TOCK....TOCK

or maybe I'm reaching for the Yorkshire Dales

in the 40's, sitting by the warm hearth

watching the dancing flames with James Herriot.

Soon, it will be time to nap. Perhaps shower and nap. Maybe shower, shave and nap. Or just to sleep. Either way.  I want to draw my best-fit line through all of the interpretations of this Fall day.

Sonnet

This sonnet sucks because it is hard to rhyme.
I have no idea if it's worth it
to use my ink-brain in effort and time
when there is reason to think it is shit.

This sonnet sucks; silence does surround me
the soundless, dew-wet cold pulls me toward
a million night-stars -- shakes my burdens free
how I reexamine: my faith restored.

This sonnet may suck and sitting untouched
grow mold and dust as the sun sets tonight.
Poetry readings allow unclenched
amateur writers to open up tight --

fisted, balled-up poems trying to read
sonnets and verses planted from a seed.

A fly in my tea

A fly in my tea;
a blister on my lip: both
appeared this morning, uninvited and unannounced.
The fat fly floated quietly,
spinning clockwise: a new concept car with wings
on a rotating platform.
I can dump out the tea
and start again, but the cold sore
remains.  Such is life: you can start over
but some things remain.

We need (Citizen) (Illegal) now more than ever.

I am so sick of the news.  As a white, heterosexual, able-bodied male (who can even pass for a Christian in most circles), I have the privilege to be sick of the news, turn it off, and ignore all of the nonsense that is occurring on a daily basis.  I can sit in my office with a cup of tea or a beer, depending on the hour, and open a book of poetry to escape the endless diatribe streaming from the President of the United States via Twitter.  Most people do not have the privilege to shut out the microaggressions, overt racism, and disgusting treatment.

So, when I saw on Twitter José Olivarez's new collection of poetry due out in September, I knew that I needed to reach out.  I knew that I needed to not only read other perspectives, but to hear them in verse.  I often turn to poetry when the world (or my life) doesn't make sense.  I turn to Dylan Thomas for a strong slap in the face (a vivid and wild  barbaric nature of words stirs me to the quick); I turn to Mary Oliver to reconnect with nature; I read Adrian Matejka to reconnect with everything human; I read Clint Smith to self-educate.

When I received an advance reader's copy of (Citizen) (Illegal), I knew that I was going to read a missing voice in the current world.  José Olivarez is the son of Mexican immigrants who quietly demands to be heard.  This amazing debut book is exactly the political critique that is missing from mainstream media.

Olivarez's opening poem, (Citizen) (Illegal) begins straight away with issues of race, ethnicity, language, and immigration.  What I found most striking is how he uses the common parenthesis to accurately express the difficulty faced by immigrants.

Mexican woman (illegal) and Mexican Man (illegal)
have a Mexican (illegal)-American (citizen).
is the baby more Mexican or American?

You can hear the hateful screaming in the background as two people begin their family.  Should it matter whether the baby is more Mexican or American?  Unfortunately, only in America.  And when this baby grows up, what will be expected of him?  Can he be his true self or must he assimilate?  As Olivarez asks, "what is assimilation but living death?"  This living death is painfully expressed throughout these beautiful and searing poems.

Olivarez shows the reader the the rich complexity of the other.  In one of his "Mexican Heaven" poems, he gives us a sad and tired stereotype.

St. Peter is a Mexican named Pedro,
but he's not a saint. Pedro waits at the gate
with a shot of tequila to welcome all Mexicans
to heaven, but he gets drunk & forgets about the list.
all the Mexicans walk into heaven,
even our no-good cousins who only
go to church for baptisms & funerals.

Upon first glance, a few lines will stroke the implicit bias of many of White Americans, but it is that last line that quietly demands that we, the reader, look closer and understand that immigrant families are complicated.  Who, among us, doesn't have a family member that the others judges for only participating in certain familial rituals when it is most convenient for them?  We all have a drunk Uncle or cousin that we try and tuck away.  It is the privilege of White Americans that we do not have to define ourselves because of one family member.  So, too, should be the case for immigrant families.  A drunk saint (nor the tequila) does not define our race, culture, ethnicity, families.  These "Mexican Heaven" poems give readers all of the Mexican/immigrant stereotypes neatly on the page, and juxtaposes them with beautiful language that is real and tangible.

For example, on one side, St. Peter is only letting Mexicans into heaven to work in the kitchens.  On the other side of the page, Olivarez's little brother is getting accepted to grad school:

he threw
his cap into the sky & it fluttered like a bird
with a broken wing. 

This image contrasts with the reality that his brother is broke: 

being razed or to stop by dad's steel mill from closing or
the foreclosure notice from landing at our doorstep,
& here we are, my brother going to grad school:
another promise, the familiar fluttering.

We need (Citizen) (Illegal) now more than ever.  Especially for its risk-taking and fantastic language and form.  Olivarez experiments with line breaks, punctuation, and grammar.  Instead of code-switching for readers, he shows us that the immigrant identity is always fluid and changing; constantly negotiating identities through social interactions.  These identity repertoires give us a rich socio-cultural perspective.  In our current society, rife with systemic oppression, how can those marginalized navigate the dominant culture without specific tools (i.e.: language, grammar).  Olivarez's poetry does not conform to society (frequently reminding us of the double-standard for those marginalized); it pushes the reader to accept multiple facets of Mexican immigrant culture.  Whether giving us tamales, tacos, huaraches, horchata, listening to Selena sing pero ay como me duele or "rippling up the middle of your ribcage--/love turns those shirts into accordions" the language Olivarez uses is effective.  To paraphrase Jamila Lyiscott, instead of borrowing the dominant culture's language because his was stolen, Olivarez uses an extensive language repertoire to show the power of being Mexican and coming from an immigrant family.  He is tired and angry that Mexican immigrants are "fold[ed] into a $2 crunchwrap supreme" from Taco Bell, and asks us why we are not more angry.


I wish that I could discuss each and every poem in (Citizen) (Illegal), but that would deprive you of forming your own opinions.  We need (Citizen) (Illegal) now more than ever.   We need it for its code meshing: showing us that you don't need to give up your linguistic identity to be poetic.  We need it for its critical look at the double-consciousness of being Mexican and American.  We need it for its purposefulness and effectiveness.  We need these poems because they empower young immigrant poets to enter any language power differential with choice.  Jose Olivarez is a writer that beautifully takes on issues of race, immigration, and language with the elegance of many American writers, and can do so because he as American as Carl Sandburg and Audre Lorde and Adrienne Rich.

we were so American it was transparent.
Southpole hoodie & a i-could-give-a-fuck type
attitude.  french fries down out throat.
blood pressure bursting. thin, fair
white women in our fantasies.  in our faces,
our grandmothers' faces. so what?

It does not matter what your political viewpoints are on a variety of issues.  I highly recommend reading (Citizen) (Illegal).  People need to be able to stand alone without fear. Innovative, equitable and democratic learning experiences cultivate a reader's willingness to take risks for the truth and for good ideals.  That is exactly what José Olivarez, que guapos, does.  He takes risks, and I am glad that he has.

__________________________________________________________________

José Olivarez is the son of Mexican immigrants.  He is a co-host of the podcast, The Poetry Gods.  A winner of the fellowships from Poets House, The Bronx Council on the Arts, The Poetry Foundation, and the Conversation Literary Festival, his work has been published in The BreakBeat Poets and elsewhere.  He is the Marketing Manager at Young Chicago Authors.

(Citizen) (Illegal) is due out September 2018 from Haymarket books.  To pre-order a signed copy, visit Volumes Books or order a copy at Amazon.

She walks away

The quiet mother laps the neighborhood
(where she is new to both)
with her subtle ssh-ing shadowing her.

She's trying to keep the baby sleeping,
so when I loudly wish her a good morning,
she quickens her pace,
a faint smile: polite and painted
and walks away.