IRISH LAD COLLECTING DONATIONS

Today it’s the American Red Cross

It could be for children of any color suffering anywhere

But the Irish lad is collecting for the American Red Cross

though you don’t want to be drawn into conversation

though you are broke

you allow him to lure you in

because you like his green eyes and his accent

You had seen eyes that color once

on a girl on the cover of a National Geographic magazine

when you were a young child sitting in a doctor’s office somewhere

“They won’t let me give blood”  He says

“It would make people talk funny”  He says

Though you know it makes no difference

you can’t help thinking some of his blood

might make your eyes green and your skin so white

You realize you are more than halfway towards becoming

the person you have long yearned to be

inside your own skin

with your ordinary eyes

and your own accent

Summer Love

“Some people swore that the house was haunted.  Can you imagine?”  She tossed the paper umbrella next to the AARP card.  “I hope they don’t forget our discount this time.”  She was scanning the pool area for a waiter.

“Um.” He murmured.

“Oh, you aren’t even listening.”  She playfully scolded.

“Am too.”

Having seen her parents old pile of bones laughingly called their summer cabin, he could in fact imagine it being haunted.

Her comment reminded him of the summer they’d met.  He was a lifeguard with a brand new Red Cross card; she was thirteen, electrifying, being trained in First Aid.  Instinctively he’d recognized something feral and dangerous.

“I’m lucky,” the camper had thought, as they’d marched in afternoon woods towards the lifeguard’s secret. 

“That’s sick!”  The kid had spat, when he’d understood the warm, intimate whispers. 

In an instantly blinding rage his hands had flown to the boy’s windpipe.  The child struggled desperately.  It wasn’t until the camper suddenly shifted his gaze and reached out for help that he’d realized they weren’t alone.  Jumping up in horror, he automatically released the boy, who lay gasping.

“I knew it!”  She’d smirked.  With a twisted little smile she’d told him not to let the kid get away.  She’d pointed to where the camper had run into the trees.

Dazed, chocking on thick ropes of guilty bile he watched as the boy vanished.

“Get him!”  She’d commanded, still pointing.  “Go!”

He caught the boy, but with discovery, her watching, and his churning guts, he hadn’t enjoyed that first time.

After, they’d walked down to the lake’s edge, where she had carefully washed him, as he’d quietly wept.

“Oh, stop.”  She’d soothed, and after a time he had.  “You’re only upset ‘cause I caught you.”

She had been absolutely right, of course, and that had made him surprisingly happy.  He felt a smile skip lightly across his face as he lay in the bright sun beside her, waiting for his next cocktail.

“I like you.”  She had cooed, that first day by the lake, in a voice he didn’t know he’d grow old loving.  Heading back to camp, as the dappled light faded, the two young gods had held hands for the first time.  Nothing was ever the same again after that.

sungsang

late night concrete parking lot floor cold
synthesized orchestra ancient thai xylophone drums warm
retro dreads classic long hair glorious young beauties
arizona gas money needed for oregon
musical paradise laidbackness
with skate borders providing dissonant backdrops

i asked the girl beside who was playing
his impromptu concerto of spiritual song
i forget - i forget she said
but in the moment it didn't matter

sungsang - it's one word the clarinetist later told me
if that's what you call an electroincial gizomized magic stick player
the pied piper could only dream about
but only on days with too much sunshine and just enough wine
and his fill of well fed laughing children

ON BEING A POET

You hope that the muse gives you something to say

Something erstwhile and worthwhile and good

And if she should speak

You will write well that day

Just like a good poet should

But if she won’t speak

If she’s nothing to say

You sit and you stare at the wall

You would sacrifice a child

Or a lamb or a goat

If it would just make her call

One must avoid triteness

While aiming for brightness

And please don’t sound like the bard

The reader won’t know

You’ve ripped out your soul

And are spilling your guts by the yard

It’s not easy to be green

I’ve heard poor Kermit lament

Well I suggest he try his hand at verse

Where I know on his street

He couldn’t pay the rent

That is the poor poet’s curse

Sometimes I think I’ll get a beret

Or a scarf

To wear so gaily

But generally I wait for the muse to speak

For that is what poets do daily

Chafing and Bloating

He hadn't actually intended to reveal so much to strangers.  He thought he was speaking to a confident.  Someone to whom one could share his secrets.

She had, after all, seen him naked, sick, happy and sad.  She had nursed him back to health and she had dyed his hair twice.  Green for St. Patty's day, and orange to bring the Giants good luck.  It had worked too, for the Giants won the world series that year.

But this illusion of personal propriety.  This status of trusted confident was vanquished.  If only he hadn't shared his problem of chafing.

"You're what?"  She asked rather loudly he thought.  They were after all, walking down 18th Street towards Mission.  Because the locals weren't able to tolerate anything above 70 degrees,the streets were full of hot sweaty families and their thirsty dogs.

"I'm chafing."  He said.  A bit more quietly, leaning in like she'd taught him.  He was sending her the secret signal for intimacy as previously instructed.  It was their code for me talking to you wanting love, or so he thought.

"Your chafing!"  She said even louder as everyone on the sidewalk looked at him.  When she had everyone's attention she delivered the coup d'etat.  "Are you feeling bloated too honey?"  She smirked and laughed.

But she was laughing at him not with him and he knew then and there, on 18th Street heading towards Mission, that their relationship would end.  He included new retirement plans to his speculation about the benefits of baby powder products.

DRAGON FLY

ancient
flitting
bug eyed
shimmery gossamer
hued green
buzzing almost silently
it's greatest grandparent
a thousand fold older than mine
we're far too young to have learned to fly

I AM AN ASSHOLE

Before you award me with ribbons,
before you engrave me a plaque,
I want you to know it came natural,
I was born an asshole in fact.

I yelled at the doctor who slapped me.
I yelled at the nurses it seems.
I took up the room for two hours or more,
and used up the gauze by the reams.

Upon entering school my plight worsened.
My teachers all thought me a cad.
They would draw straws to see
who was the teach of me,
and the short straw was the teacher I had.

I entered the workforce with guts,
but the boss that hired me went nuts.
I'm a challenge un-sweet to all that I meet.
That's why my carer's in these ruts.

Looking for love is a challenge,
weather I'm up or I'm down.
No matter how I should smile,
my face always looks like a frown.

Where will I go to retire?
Where shall I lay my head?
Everyone that knew me,
and they're sure they saw through me,
will secretly hope that I'm dead.

When St. Peter greets me in heaven,
he'll inform me it's true that I'm bad.
But I'll be the asshole in heaven
and St. Pete and I will be glad.







Kevin C. Watkins - copyright 2011