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Poetry:1998 & 1999 |  |
Jeffery
We were losing. It was the biggest game of my senior year. It was the fourth quarter, and according to the big scoreboard there were only seventy seconds left in the game. One minute, ten seconds. All I could hear was the ocean, the wordless roar of thousands of men and women and children and cheerleaders and horns and bells that excites the war-instincts of ordinary folks who have never held a gun, much less ridden on the backs of Mongolian ponies in unpleasant smelling leather jerkin armor holding their arrows in the mouth, their bow in one hand and a huge spear with a nasty point on it in the other. This sound is made only by people who are winning. It did not come from my side of the stands. Plays were called, the ball snapped. The quarterback, one Jeffery Ronceverte, thought he looked quite dashing in his white uniform with navy and maroon trim. He had chosen the number 11 because the two massive vertical stripes made him look taller. He was vain as hell. It was Jeffery's senior year too. He wanted to win big, be the hero, be touted and remembered and have a big picture of him printed in the Telegraph and get his girlfriend Crissy so fired up that she wouldn't be able to help tearing his clothes off, which would be a big change since she was still clinging to her virginity despite his continual efforts to the contrawise. The Bulldogs were running a heavy defense on him, however, and every play were blitzing him with at least half the team, so unless he wanted to end up underneath 280-pounds of flesh and 40-pounds of silk and steel and plastic, he knew he better not try to run it in. No, he would throw the final touchdown, the big mama, insuring the win and allowing him to get lucky and famous and a scholarship at Virginia Tech. Cleats tore into the grass, still soft and muddy from the rain that had fallen in the first half. The lights made long black shadows that made it difficult to see the features of the man your guarding's face. I was on the end, guarding a very fat guy whose beady red eyes gleamed under his white helmet that I had already put two scars on, two streaks of maroon paint torn like open wounds across his brow. Bill, I said. Shuttup meathead. Bill hated me. Bill, when your pretty-boy finishes sassyin' out his numbers, you know what I'm gonna' do? I'm gonna' put you on your ass. Hmmmph. So, like I said, the play was called, the ball was snapped, and two masses of overweight young men piled onto each other cursing and spitting and grabbing silk and punching and using whatever dirty trick they thought they could get away with. Jeffery's guards were on the ball, and held off the Hottentots with visions of grateful buxom cheerleaders in tight blue sweaters and screaming mothers with their pictures on buttons and flags and newspapers and news reports filling their heads and Jeffery got off the ball that swooped towards the distant receiver in a glorious arc like a diving or perhaps a cannonball and the ball fell and Jeffery was on the ground and that was good but everyone was still watching the ball and then out of nowhere came Mike who jumped up and plucked the ball from the air like a grape and ran and ran and ran and 96 yards later he was a hero. The crowd, our crowd, roared like a gathering of lions and wolves and rabid bears and tyrannosaurs who were armed with sophisticated loudspeaker technology and bells and various other noisemakers and everyone rushed the field and jumped the fence and covered their bluejeans and khakis and tennis shoes and boots with clean brown mud. They cried into the night like those moved by the spirits and unusual narcotics, adrenalin pounding and blood-rushing and the odor of sweat and dirt and grass filling their lungs. Police with dogs and horses and flare guns unsuccessfully tried to run them from the field, though in the end they were commended for preventing the obliteration of the goal posts. The Telegraph would report there had been 13 brawls broken up by the police, 42 arrests for public intoxication, and record sales of toilet paper and eggs. Mike was hoisted on the shoulders of the his brothers (all three had borne the sacred title of hero in their own day) and on the WMTY6 News at Eleven show he was awarded the player of the week award. I, however, did not see any of this. Bill had taken it upon himself to stuff my face into the mud and was quite insistent that should I try hard enough I would find it made an excellent substitute for oxygen, a point which to this day I remain staunchly unconvinced of. Post-Script Joe's Dad Was
From Honduras Boxing reminds me of the sea. Canvas and salty sweat and salty tears and the roar of the crowd so much like the roar of waves echoing in my ears. You think of such things when you ‘re laying on the canvas, your body covered with blood and sweat and tears and the roar of the crowd is echoing in your ears. You notice the way the gloves feel on your hands, so tight and comforting. You see the red glow of cigarettes and the glint of light reflecting off of glasses and the bright green-white flash of cameras. You notice the checked pattern of the fibers of the mat, the color of it, almost white, yet still stained with the blood and the sweat and the tears. I found myself wondering why I was laying on the mat. Irishmen box, dammit. That's what my Dad always said. That's why I boxed, that's why your grandpa and uncles and cousins and brother boxed, and by God (he crosses himself) that's why you'll box. So I pulled on the gloves and looked at the bag and closed my eyes and punched it. I didn't want to box, not until that moment. Then I felt the unique feeling of the attack, the terrible pain-pleasure of forcing my will on an object, on something outside of myself. It was like being a king or a god or a lover and I loved it. I was eleven. I was damn good. Tore up the high school tournaments, was Massachusetts state champion three years in a row. I was the NCAA National Champ when I was at Boston College my sophomore and senior years, and the only reason I wasn't my junior year is I was at a frat party and snapped my leg in three places while I was dancing and had to sit out that season. I went pro after college and worked my way up the ladder till I was national middle-weight champ. Joe Mandanga grew up in Philly. Joe's Dad was from Honduras and died
when Joe was four. His mom, a poor girl from Mississippi
whose family abandoned her when they found out she ran
off with ‘damn foreigner' raised him and his three
sisters alone, working double shifts at the
Tastee-Freeze. Joe's sisters had all gone to Notre Dame,
and he would have followed, but he wanted to be like his
Dad. Joe's Dad was a boxer who had a lifetime record of
no wins and seven losses and he died in the ring from a
cerebral hemorrhage and Joe's mom ran into the ring and
no one made a sound except for her, but she cried and
cried and cursed him and prayed to God to bring the
Son-of-a-Bitch back because she needed him dammit Joe was not a very good boxer. My manager only arranged the fight because it was in Philly and he thought that it might let us get some decent connections. In his own words I was supposed to go out there open up a can of whoop-ass and sit down for some Gatorade by the third round. I figured it wouldn't take but one. When Joe hit me the first time, I knew he was mine. He was weaker and slower and I rolled with it easy and knew he was so scared that he was freezing up and pulling his punches. I remembered the story my wife had heard about Joe. I looked into his black eyes, already circled with purple-green bruises. I controlled him, like a king or a god or a lover. He knew he would lose. He knew. I didn't really throw the fight. I backed up a little, let Joe get some air. Then I moved in and let him get a couple in and then I let him push me against the ropes and then I saw the left hook coming and I guess I sorta' aimed my face at it and pretty much headbutted his glove and when I fell and I heard the ref counting I just didn't get up. I guess I could have, I mean physically, but I didn't. I just laid there and thought about blood and salty sweat and salty tears and Joe and his Dad and my Dad and I watched the constellations of bobbing cigarettes and flashing cameras. Boxing reminds me of the sea. Canvas and salty sweat and salty tears and the roar of the crowd so much like the roar of waves echoing in my ears. I don't box anymore. Wolves Wolves. I see the wolves sometimes in the
night. Huuh-huuh. Huuh-huuh. Ears twitch. Noses sniff and snuffle.
Claws scrape the ground with a clicking like hard shoes
on Wolves circle me. Around and around.
Wolves do not howl or growl. They do not bark or snarl. I hate the wolves. I feel their breath hot on my skin like a fever or maybe it is my fever since I am so sick but how can a fever be hot and wet and come in puffs of Huuh-huuh. They sing quietly in their stolen clothes, so quiet that I cannot hear all the words but the song, it is soft and rolling like a lullaby but I can't sleep I mustn't sleep because if I do the dancing wolves in children's clothes will get me and I can never here a lullaby again without wanting to scream because I remember the wolf song. Wolves do not howl. The wolves know I will not sleep, not while they are there so they slowly go away but not really. So now there are wolves in the shadows and wolves behind curtains and wolves under the bed and wolves hiding behind the window panes. They sing quietly, so quietly I cannot hear the words. I am not a little sick boy anymore. If the wolves wish to come back, prowling and singing and dancing in their stolen clothes then let them. Wolves tried to get me, tried to eat me, tried to kill me. But the wolves did not and they will not. I am not a little sick boy anymore. On Chris Once, a friend of mine was in love.
Sometimes, sometimes that's a good feeling, to be in
love, but not always. Sometimes you love someone who
loves you, but not in the same way you love them, and you
draw apart, and you don't really know them anymore and
you are empty. Or so you think. In fact you are still
full, still inflated with your own love, your own
personal reason for being, even if that person is a
thousand miles away and married and your mind knows that
there is no chance but dammit you love her and so you go
on loving her because you can't do anything else and
because you have no one else. And you survive, held
together by postcards and My friend, the one in love, I mean, he
was sitting and watching a baseball game on TV one day
when his Mom called and told him that She had been in a
horrible accident and they were flying Her to the
University for surgery. Eric, dammit, Eric She never made it to the University. She died in a hospital eight miles from where her her car slammed into the tree. I had to tell my friend that She was dead, I had to tell the man who loved her but She couldn't love back, that the woman he loved but had never told Anyone about was gone. I couldn't go to the funeral, I had a test in Chinese. Sometimes I pray to God that if I ever fall in love again, I pray I will be able to tell her that I love her. I pray this because of the horrible sound of my friend over the phone, trying to be brave, trying to be a mourning Friend (not a mourning Lover). The sound of a good man choking on the words he never said and can never say that will always always be caught in his throat like a chicken bone, never letting him sleep quite well again. I wonder if my friend shook Her
husband's hand, And now, the postcards and Harmonica Have you ever sat beside a river and
played a harmonica? The Girl in
Wisconsin The line of her back Her eyes when The way her hair smelled, The way she fit in my arms. The way her tiny frame looked When she was sick, she slept there
beside me, Thank God I have some sense. A Saturday in
Virginia That afternoon I was sitting on my
front porch. Dust. The 1949 Ford pulled into my driveway.
Gray-brown dust covered the paint, a blend of dirt and
smoke and smog and dead mosquito and healthy quantities
of bird manure. The driver wore a White summer suit
like I envisioned a Senator from South Carolina would
wear, down to his sky-blue bow tie (with the peach
polka-dots). He was sweating profusely and held a Chinese
fan. Yessir, I said, still not certain what to make of the men. Can I help you? The man in White shielded his eyes from the sun. Sweat dripped. What's wrong Eric, don't you remember me from school? said the man in White. Oh, yeah, I lied, how have you been? Quite well, thank-you said the man in White. I'm just in town for a little while, on my way down to Savannah. Have you met my associates here? said the man in White, motioning towards his three companions. No, nosir I don't believe I've had the pleasure. Chuck was the man in Red. Actually the suit was a brown tweed but the tie was a blinding red like you only see in particularly fine strawberries, the kind you find by accident in the woods when you are supposed to be studying or working or being otherwise constructive but would prefer to be aimless. His tie was him. That and his extremely bushy eyebrows. The man in Black wore a black Italian suit that I think was silk. He wore a charcoal gray vest and a tie the color of cornshucks at sunset in October. His name was Jimmy and he would never respond with more than a nod. Burgundy suspenders. A bow-tie with navy and maroon regimental stripes. Green houndstooth pattern slacks. Ted, the man in Green, was a laid back fellow who kept his sleeves rolled up and had a bright red goatee that drew attention away from his receding hairline. Soon we were all sitting on the porch
sipping ice tea with lemon and just a touch of sugar,
huddled around the radio and cursing umpires and telling
dirty jokes and the man in White told about the girl from
New Orleans with the mole on her chin and the blonde hair
and we all laughed hard till it hurt and called him a
lying son-of-a-bitch. Then we opened the Scotch. The man in Red asked what I did for a living and I said that I was in car sales and he said that he was looking for a new work vehicle and I asked what he was in the market for and he responded that he'd really like a nice pickup truck. I told him we'd just gotten a big shipment last Tuesday and he asked if I had any with a metallic blue paintjob and I said yep and if he wanted to come by sometime and take a look then I was sure I could cut him a deal and he said he would. We emptied the bottle of Scotch just as the sky began to pick up hints of pink and orange and plum. I went to the basement and brought up two bottles of red wine I'd been saving for no particular reason. We didn't bother with glasses. Fireflies went about their business, lighting up their hindparts to get other fireflies to light up their hindparts, and I thought of The Great Gatsby and got a little depressed until the man in Green tripped over the doormat when he got up to use the bathroom and knocked over his rocking-chair and I spit red wine all over my khakis and didn't even notice. He flipped us the bird and we laughed even harder and my sides hurt and I decided that Gatsby's big problem was he hadn't had the proper type of Scotch at his disposal. Night isn't really black, if you really look at it. The Night has some blues and grays and dark greens but mainly the Night is purple. Purple is quite an unusual sounding word, I think. Regardless, the purple Night is dotted with stars, yellow and white and red flecks moving a million miles away at a million miles an hour, orchestrated like so many Russian Ballerinas, dancing for the pleasure of God and Men. The man in White (who hadn't had any wine or liquor, only a couple beers) said that as much as he hated to, they had to head out. The hotel was twenty minutes away and they had to get up with the sun tomorrow if they wanted to be in Savannah in time for lunch. Conquest has a good, firm handshake. I respect that. We help the now extremely drunk man in Green to the car. He leaned his Pale skin against the window and made a sound like a cat purring and passed out. The man in Black smiled and smacked me on the back and sat down beside him. I'll come see you about the car, said the man in Red, and I said I'll be waiting and he said just be sure I have some Scotch handy and I laughed and said I would and he sat down and took shotgun and tuned the radio to an Oldies station. The man in White climbed behind the wheel and said he'd see me at Homecoming and I said I'd be there come Hell or Highwater. He started the car and turned on the lights and I ran over to his window and I asked as nonchalantly as I could, Say, when is that Apocalypse-thing starting and he laughed and the man in Black chuckled as he cleaned his glasses. My dear Eric, don't you know. If I did I wouldn't have asked I said. He nodded. Well, he said in a low, slightly mocking tone, I'll be honest with you. It started the day after the Creation ended, a long, long time ago. But the Orioles played yesterday, and they played today, and by-God they'll play tomorrow. See you later Eric. The 1949 Ford pulled out, crunching the gravel of my driveway under its tires. The Wind Poem
Once, I knew a little Now, I love to feel the wind I love to feel the wind When I hurt, the wind comes and
breathes Not with me. For me. But the little red headed girl, How odd it is that I should enjoy Bland County,
Virginia Scrntch-chrnch. Scrntch-chrnch. My thick mustard-brown boots quietly crush the dry leaves into the soft black earth. Scrntch-chrnch. Scrntch-chrnch. My thick navy sweater catches on the greenbriar and brambles. Scrntch-chrnch. Scrntch-chrnch. The sky is that particular shade of blue it takes on only in the fall in the mountains, nearly purple in its center, nearly white along the mountainline. Even though it hurts my eyes, I stare into the sky, taking great pleasure in the subtle gradations of blue, the crispness of it, the pureness of it, the utter majesty of that blue. I love the sky. Scrntch-chrnch. Scrntch-chrnch. The white sun hangs above me, warming my face like the barber's shaving cloth. Scrntch-chrnch. Scrntch-chrnch. I feel safe. The Mountains, My Mountains, hang over me. They are ancient. They are strong. They are great. The Mountains ask for nothing. The Mountains only give. The Mountains whisper songs in the wind, but too quietly for me to hear the words. So I sing my own song, like my ancestors did when they first walked through these Mountains. I think They like my song, so I take out my harmonica and sit down on a stump and sing songs of the Mountains. I sing about Tennessee and West Virginia, of the red trees and the quiet streams. The Mountains laugh and I stand up and like a Sufi I begin to swirl about, my harmonica pouring out notes, my body writhing in joy in the middle of the woods and I think my this is how it must feel to be free. Scrntch-chrnch. Scrntch-chrnch. As I walk I notice an old steel can, rusted and broken open to the sky. I do love the color of rust. Scrntch-chrnch. Scrntch-chrnch. When I was five years old my Daddy taught me how to skip stones. He showed me how to pick out a thin sliver of shale and throw it at just the right angle. Damn, I love to skip stones. Scrntch-chrnch. Scrntch-chrnch. I once read that one of the most essential traits of human beings is that we love to make a mark, to leave a symbol of our existence. Me, I just like the way my initials look carved into fresh maple. I consider etching the initials of a girl I know, just so I can see them together. Instead I put away my pocketknife. Scrntch-chrnch. Scrntch-chrnch. As I walk home, I feel the air grow cooler. I think of my wood-burning stove, of my thick old quilt, of brown beans and cornbread, and of my Mom's bright pink cheeks. I let out an Indian whoop just because I can and walk a little faster. Scrntch-chrnch. Scrntch-chrnch. Elkins, West
Virginia: 1911 My father was a miner in Elkins, West Virginia. He died when I was sixteen in a mine collapse. My father's world was black. Black dust, black skin, black lungs, black tunnels, black days and black nights. A black man who couldn't wipe away the extra layers of blackness that would fall on him during his black days. I remember how he would cough. He would cough long and hard when he came home at night. He would lean against the papered walls and cough so hard that it sounded like he was about to die. I would turn over in my bed and pretend I was asleep while he would coughandcoughandcoughandcough until it sounded like his lungs would be able to take no more. He would wheeze and his body shake and tears that he tried to hide from my mother would slowly peel back one layer of black, only to reveal another and another. Gradually he would slip into restless sleep, and eventually, eventually he quit coughing. I could never sleep until he quit coughing. Then he died. And I didn't sleep for nearly two weeks. I couldn't sleep without it, you see. I needed to hear it, to hear his pain. His pain reminded me that he was still there, still my father. But then he wasn't there. I quit school three days after my father died. It was the only way we could keep the Company from taking our house. My world is black. Black dust, black skin, black lungs, black tunnels, black days and black nights. A black man who can't wipe away the extra layers of blackness that fall on him during his black days. Last month, I started to cough. So It Goes I sit alone at my desk. I wish someone would realize I am here, talk to me, acknowledge my existence. I wish I had something worth thinking about that would distract my thoughts away from my own solitude. Why must I pray at night to God and hear only the wind? Why must my bowels continually roar, awash in an animal angst that cries out to be released but cannot, not without overtaking me, engulfing me, obliterating my own humanity? I consider the miseries of the world and know mine are small and silly, and I hate myself and my position all the more. If I must live in misery, why can it not be for some righteous purpose, some great and just pretext. I do not desire fame, and if needs be I can live without the things I love. But I desire meaning, and it is meaning that my life lacks. And so I pray to God and hear nothing but the wind, but I know He is there, watching. And so it goes. And so it goes. God and Two
Women I sit alone in my room. The cool night air creeps into my window. I sit and read the letter my mother wrote me, the letter I was not to receive until she had left this world for another. The air around me is filled with bagpipes and drums, sounds that bring mournful words to my lips that cannot be spoken, and so I take up pen. I cry for my mother. I cry for the woman who does not love me. I cry for my family, for the pain of my father and brother. To me, the world is entirely composed of bagpipes, of the mournful wailing music of my people. I want to roar into the night, to be strong and angry, to release my rage at this world, this flawed construction, this lopsided house. But, but, but (so many buts). But I am not strong, not angry, only a little boy from the hills in an alien land surrounded by people as sad as himself. Now I am only alone. I have never felt so alone in my entire life. I am deprived of the two women who have meant the most to me in my brief time on this earth. The one who loved me is ether, the one who remains does not love me. Tomorrow I will go home. Home to my father. Home to my brother. Home to my blessed mountains. Tomorrow I may not find happiness. But I will find peace, respite from the pain that my life has become. And maybe, just for a little while, I will remember what it is like to sleep. God, I miss sleep. And so I set down my pen and move, ever so slowly, to my bed, my bed where I will lie all night staring at my ceiling, praying for God to bring my mother back, praying for God to bring my lover back. But I know that He is keeping them both for himself. . . and I don't know why. |
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