VERSEWRIGHTS
  • Welcome
  • All Poets
  • PoetryAloud
  • Inbox Peace
  • The Press
  • Journal Archives

Jorge Davis


The Obstructionist

I sat there holding, and rubbing
my larynx, trying perhaps to find
a word in there. But something
shut me down. And the word lay
trapped. And they began to pile up.
All the while this extraordinary
woman kept looking at me; kicking
the table leg with her biker boots
(and I know this because I have a
pair just like them: sexy.)  And
the vibrations originating from those
leather boots only exacerbated my
condition. And she grew frustrated,
and left; left me there, rubbing
my larynx and wondering what
a doctor would say: You will need
immediate surgery; to remove that
middle finger lodged in your throat,
by the ex

The Moment People

to the moment people 
a second could be a second
or a day

and the minute 
a minute
or a decade

and watches are of little use
though they decorate the wrist 
of the moment people

the big hand rarely moving
and sometimes it moves 
backward

on occasion the moment people
defy more logic: back arched
eyes sealed tight

the hands 
probing and yanking
contorting the flesh

in the darkness the skin sees all
the mouth swallows the last of the light
and shadows slice through time 
         ∞ 
in this space 
you don’t have to die
if you don’t want to

My favorite soldier

He walks like a child,
gimpy
down back country
road
up main street
downtown,
right into a mall


Private first class
so and so

Sergeant
Rock

Captain, America

Aye aye sir

-------who aaahhhhh  

Airborne, leads the way


(But I am a mountain man,
the Golden Dragon
from New/ York).


A grown man weeping just because
a plate in his head
clicked on sensors
to the heart

Remember, gimpy ass forgotten toy soldiers?
I used to play with them
as a kid...


and he, my favorite soldier
because he got prodded down
supermarket aisle eight and
into delicious exotic frag-bazaars
flowing
over with ancient humanity
would now
find himself eyeing the fresh fruit
of the farmer’s labor
grown
right from the banks of the Euphrates

when just then
he heard nothing
but saw
only white light
and felt the strange sensation
of his body floating into mid-air

and when his
torso (minus
his limbs) finally
fell

thump
onto the scorched earth

he felt, a fine mist
of warm American/Arab
blood
settle on his face

and he could taste the iron-
ny of it all, and remembered
how his mother (in the spring)
would take him by the hand
every morning
for walks along Crystal Beach

and the thick fog would moisten his
face and dampen his hair
and he could taste the salt and the irony
there too

and tighter still he’d hold his
mother’s hand
for fear of losing his footing
and falling into the cold lake
and drowning....


I tell myself that he died that day
because he was young because he loved
because you always hold the right of the line.


It is what we tell ourselves.

In honor of Sgt. Jason C. Denfrund, Bravo Company 
2nd Battalion, 14th Infantry Regiment/ 2nd Brigade 
Combat team, 10th Mountain Division 

Died on patrol in Baghdad, Christmas Day, 2006


Picture

​
​Jorge Davis' profile

public transportation poetry

lady in a wheel chair


lady in a wheel chair
rolls up
& pointing to the pink apartments behind us
says:
“i lives over dare, can you rolls me cross da street?”

the thing about public transportation
is it makes you face people, clark
& artesia i’ve walked this far to help
this lady to the liquor store for cigarettes

& when i rolled her back & took
my place on the bench under the shade
of a small tree
she thanked me

i told her not to smoke in bed
                    

bourgeois                                             
                         
                       
i walked up to the driver: “where does your route end?”
“downtown, broadway at the metro.”
i take my seat and watch two teen lovers
pressed against the window
gazing, at a fast blue car


last stop


broadway & the metro,
i thank the driver
& am let out into the cold shadow
of the chase building

i start walking toward the sun

Gray Wool

I stand stark naked raving mad; he
stands there, kind; while I rant on about the
previous evenings injustices, possessed
angrily by my own demons of self- 
    righteousness….

I half-expect my roommate to gather up
his belongings one day while I sleep, and
leave; he has every right you know to do
    so

I who don’t do well in the calm moment---
need and make passion wherever I can….
 
But my roommate stands there like a saint, or
a monk, and listens; he, who small in physical
stature I fear my explosions will one-day---
knock him over; over  whelm  him.
 
But patiently he waits for me to finish,
then quietly he leaves the room, ---to only   
return wearing an Italian made suit
that he recently bought, and just arrived  
    from Italy …

He lets me feel the quality; of the fabric
the craftsmanship the sharp lines perfectly
    tailored;

Refined. So beautiful a suit that my anger
becomes lost against the softness of gray wool….
My friend Josh knows me better than anyone.

Fernie Do You Remember?

Fernie do you remember?
that brown bully gangster
with his black henchmen?---
they seemed eight-feet tall to us

Mar---teen, was the gangster’s name
the cousin of Ingrid and Bella
and we loved,
Ingrid and Bella

Mar---teen the gangster---
with his long greasy black hair
pulled tight---into a mamba like
slithering, pony tail

And where did he find
those crispy white tee/shirts?
that draped his enormous body---
like the stiffest whitest circus tent
you ever saw

And his android-like henchmen
had a dress code too,
dress like
Mar/teen

And when that black Buick Regal
with those shiny spoked wheels
and peeling tinted windows---
pulled up

did you know it was the gangster Marteen?---
and his muscle?
all squeezing out that car

And before we took that beating
that splintered my ribs and pierced my lung---
that beating that closed your eyes
and snapped your arm

Fernie do you remember what you said?
Chest all puffed out
we stood our ground

Do you remember that day?
how to me, you stood
Ten feet tall
​

Tom Long

She isn’t going to do porn,
so

she’s your bartender.
You order a drink

Strong.
And that faux
 
blonde

who pays you
no mind

takes your money
and puts it in the jukebox.


Picture

Comments?

***

​Thank you for visiting Tweetspeak VerseWrights.
© 2012-2018. VerseWrights. All rights reserved.:
Acrostic Poems
Ballad Poems
Catalog Poems
Epic Poetry
Fairy Tale Poems
Fishing Poems
Funny Poems
Ghazal Poems
Haiku Poems
Love Poems
Math, Science & Technology Poems
Ode Poems
Pantoum Poems
Question Poems
Rondeau Poems
Rose Poems
Sestina Poems
Shakespeare Poems
Ship, Sail & Boat Poems
Sonnet Poems
Tea Poems
Villanelle Poems
Work Poems

To translate this page:
  • Welcome
  • All Poets
  • PoetryAloud
  • Inbox Peace
  • The Press
  • Journal Archives