Ana Caballero
TimingSunday taxi from the airport
To the house An hour passed amongst Children Things set down in a place Reserved Electric clouds to yoga The intentioned drive A practice repeated endeavored Offered /Over The sushi chef mentions the score because I am there Tomorrow he will prepare My broth The sky drizzles headlights flaunt The rain /Again There are no brief moments that pass Us by The Napkin TrickIt’s been done before:
The intention of conversation starts and ends with a slow walk around a familiar, short block -- the light purse or empty pocket. (Tonight after all should only call for some cash.) A set of doors is chosen but not broached, and reluctance comes as a reminder of isolated drinks where music from cars (circling the block in search of a parking spot) is forgotten on the front and back of a red paper napkin. WelcomeIt’s not like I don’t
ask nice. Not like I have more than one shelf. Every night I make room, but it is for one single plate. And every afternoon it is I who sets it down. Who offers you or you or you the chance to give thanks. To be the one who makes another fold his hands. In my home, it is you who hosts, and I am compelled to be charmed. Call it grace. Call it world talk. Call it an open heart, straight teeth that will always call you back. Breakfast Meeting
As an afterthought I can consider the present
Skylines and curved highways Cliffhangings in real time and real Realtime Consumed while I am young I lack nothing and want everything I alone I Alone I Lonely please allow me to please Be Lonely Let me see the city as colosal and ancient Let my nights fall silent and sleepless Into the city’s whole morning call Silent and sleepless swallowed So unimportant that only the breath remains I awake To speak Back To speak This is the only way I know The Feeling of Being Hungover
Sometimes, I get so tired of poetry.
It asks for so much - makes me feel hungover. Or if I am hungover - makes me feel dumb and slow. Like getting on the Freeway sometimes makes you want to hit reverse. Life Things
The writing has left
it rests far away when it was close it was closer but not as close as far when far away There is still life yes a baby still new a father still sick a master unhere I watch these life things gather height the in held breath of avalanche snow and dragon green of hurricane sea I tend the wait so the baby may speak the father stand the master glow I try at times to name the wait but it is too clear like a good death So I wait with the writing of my son's first word my father's straight back my master's raised hand for the life things to come close and tell me their name |
Baby
Chew YouI’ve always loved left overs
Cold, by the kitchen sink With dirty fingers and appalled mothers These, though, I will eat alone Sitting up In bed It was a good, unapologetic lay The day we tried To play for good But, it was really only a day One good day Condensed Into one good chew And now: One Strained Swallow Down the Hollow Drain Bathroom Talk
Watching you pee in front of me while we talk about not being late
It’s true we shouldn’t be late to things I try to remember when we began peeing and talking In front of each other I wish I could remember I would tell you I wish I had to pee So that I could test you and see if you look See if you question Any less What I am about to say Which is basically Everyone already expects us to be late So maybe we altogether just stopped being late Sorry Afterthought
No language
When spoken Suits me I could try to remember more Read slower Drink less Practice inserting one word into a daily sentence Oh! – The conversations New sounds digested on my saturnine tongue Aardvark Adjurations dropped after the birthday boy asked Babies on Planes
When I am on a plane,
and I hear a baby begin to cry, I think: cry, cry, cry. Cry slower and louder. Cry longer. Cry while your mother walks you around so that the entire plane can hear you cry. Stop crying; whimper softly. Make us think you are done, then bawl. When the flight attendant offers help that is not help – Can I bring some water?– answer back with a wail. Shriek. Howl the flight attendant away. Make your mother give up, display her shabby grin and press deep into her seat. Cry right into my ear. Cry right into the immigration line. Cry right into the wait for the bags that are not there, and they don’t come, and still they do not come. Let me hear you screech into the airport curb and whimper in your car. When you are gone, keep the ringing faint, but keep it real, keep it long. Scream baby, baby. Rack up my airplane baby miles for the airplane baby day when my baby decides to cry. My Nudity in All Its Forms
Two years ago,
I mistook the apple for a peach: 1. Two cases of imported beers carried six flights of stairs 2. Glasses instead of contacts because I can’t be bothered 3. I make you climb six flights of stairs to drink imported beer 4. I make you have me 5. You have me 6. You buy breakfast 7. You say you had fun 8. I bite down hard 9. Say nothing |