Ballad of the Lost Shark

 A song for the lost shark

at the bottom of the sea

A song for the notions

that line up perfectly

A song for the children

who once were you and me

A song for the west wind

and the nest high in a tree

Sing, sing, sing, for no reason

just because you can

A song for the lost car

rusting in a field

A song for the card sharp

who says shut up and deal

A song for the baby

who was born and then grew old

A song for the kind ones

who give their hand to hold

Sing, sing, sing for no reason

just because you can

for the shark down in the deep sea

and you there on the sand.

Sir Edmund Hillary

Sir Edmund Hillary would love these steps

(I would think,

watching my black-stockinged knees 

appear in front of me 

as I climbed.)

There should be sherpas

and glory,

admirers to celebrate my sister and I.

I remember my flat palm against the stone,

warm as a bird's breast 

rough as burlap,

hard as any other thing that had always been

and would always be.

Today I can't recall 

any sunrise in particular.

Lovers' names elude me like the love itself,

and months go by as hours did then.

How clear the memory of a hat's woven straw

or the smooth handle of a red umbrella.

How faint the sounds outside my window now.

What day is it? What difference

does it make?

Nothing disturbs me with yearning or surprise.

I recall we had dolls, trolleys,

skates, books,

and a million days ahead of us.

There was a doorbell,

a screen in summer time,

and always (of course!)

someone busy, and ours, inside.

______

for The Sunday Muse.

 

The Aztecs Have Abandoned Downtown

The Aztecs have abandoned downtown.

They used to row their canoes down the San Antonio river,

and sacrifice hearts to Huitzilipochtli down by the Cenotaph,

a stone's throw from the Alamo.

The police ran them off.

A few of them sold tee shirts and key chains in little shops in latter years, though,

and now they live in McMansions with sprawling lawns and gates,

though they're discouraged from displaying their enemies' heads on the points of their wrought-iron fences.

Things change. It's sad.

Now the Aztecs keep their feathers and paint in attics or long-term storage units,

too sentimental to throw them away.

They wear L.L. Bean and J. Jill. 

I'll open a crummy theater for third-run movies and call it the Aztec.

It'll be Pachuco heaven where truants can make out.

I'll know the cops by name and offer them coffee

while actresses younger than my kids tear out their hearts on screen for cokey actors in dumb costumes.

I will stay open as long as I can. Ars gratia artis.

________

for Sunday Muse #108, where I am hosting this week. I can't figure out the new dashboard to make this a link. Things always change. Pffft.

"Ars gratia artis", the slogan MGM used to use with the roaring lion, means "art for art's sake."

Night Support

You will argue that it's none of my concern

who you embrace,

what fruit your mouth accepts and expresses

as the pulp and sweetness of your desire.

Doesn't sick soil poison every leaf?

Doesn't richness bless every bloom?

I am the Quantifier and Keeper of Carnal Particulars.

The muscle of his shoulder beneath your cheek

 two Novembers ago?

Bin 47, lot 5.

The dusky sound of her woodsmoke voice

on a bridge above the river on a night last July?

Shelf 21B, Warehouse 2, Compound A.

You just wait.

Let that grating emptiness come over you when you're alone

remembering his paint-stained fingers

or the caramel curl of her hair.

You'll need to retrieve it then,

more than blooms need stems,

sharp as a outcasts need warm mercy.

There I'll be,

rolling my cart to space 4G7 in the auxiliary bay,

requisitioning the very thing you need,

sending it out,

replacing it,

maintaining inventory and your equilibrium.

I'm good at what I do

because I understand need and weakness and lack.

Envelope G, in file B7GK4

should contain your wicked smile,

the angle of your teeth, your lips,

your tongue,

and the 27 catalogued effects they had on my dissolving bones.

Inventory shows them on-hand,

but though I search your name, 

your skin,

your scent,

I can't find any particle of you;

just a ringing emptiness

and this paltry job to fill it.

______ 

for "job title" at Toads.

When I was in the USAF, I worked night support in a warehouse, finding aircraft parts for delivery to the flight line. I drew on that, for this.

Opening My Heart

I opened my heart,
but it was no Up With People moment.
It hurt, so I worried at it
until it cracked and split.

From within,
a small dragon.
I fed her Poe and Rimbaud,
Ferlinghetti and Neko Case.

She grew and ate Detroit,
then was sick on the rug.
I led her on a chain,
her head searching side to side
and her haunches high.

Now she's Out, breathing fire.
Beautiful. Angry.
Loose.
_____

73 words for Words Count with Mama Zen at Real Toads