A VISIT TO YOUR MYSPACE PAGE

For Essra


Last night, I listened
To your song
About your father.
It made me smile
Sadly.

“He was always mad as hell,” you said.
I remember.
You mentioned
How handsome he was.
I remember that, too:

Dark skin
Dark hair
Dark eyes
Dark spirit --
But fiery, always
Still burning.

He told me once
That war
Was natural,
Just Nature’s way
To shave off
Excess population.
I told him I thought
That’s why some people
Were gay.
He huffed
And shrugged that off.

He always had to be right.
He had that in common
With you; that,
And a charm
That doggedly disarms
All but affection,
Even when a rough edge
Cuts.
Your philosophy, of course,
Is just the opposite of his.


I noticed that I was
High on your friends list,
Though I haven’t been in touch
In much too long,
And I was moved.

How often I forget
What is important
To attend
To what is
Merely pressing.

The passing of my own father
Was one of many things
I thought might change that.

Then, I blinked;
Years had gone by.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

GOOD SHEPHERD

(Bernard Plockhorst (1825-1907), The Good Shepherd

Judge not, lest ye be judged.
-- Jesus Christ, quoted in Matthew 7:1


Before you read
Your poem, you tell us
That the subject
Will be Christ,
Because He’s
Your priority.

You don’t call yourself
A “warrior for Christ,”
And yet that’s the impression
You create
Of your intention.
You seem very angry.

Your poem cites
Several Bible passages,
But, to your credit,
Mostly doesn’t try
To quote them.
You say you don’t care
If we sinners
Are offended.
“He didn’t save us
So we could be polite,”
You add. You glare
Into my eyes
As you steamroll your way
Through this part
Of your poem.

You say
You did many bad things
Back before you were saved.
You robbed
And hurt people.
It seems less
Like a confession
Than a threat –
You hurt them,
And you could hurt us.

I remember
My grandmother’s favorite
Holy card, the one
With the painting
Of Christ carrying
A lamed lamb.
Christ’s eyes
In that picture
Were gentle.

Paradoxically, I also picture
Warriors for Christ
Who killed and tortured millions
In the Inquisition --
Especially old women
Like my grandmother,
Who worked to heal the sick,
Who offered herbal cures
And helped deliver babies.
For what crimes
Were these women killed?
Well, one might say,
“God knows.”

I feel like that lamb,
Looking for a shepherd,
Seeing nothing here
Except another path
To slaughter.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

THE BULLFIGHT PAINTING

(Public Domain photo from animalvoice.com. The painting I describe in the poem below is not in the Public Domain, but maybe it's better to see an image of the subject that doesn't even try to prettify it.)



One of those hideous paintings you see
In a bar or a barbecue joint, that
The owner adores and paid a big fat
Price for, by a name in the industry

Some folks call “Bullfight Art.” The matador’s
In white, cape red as the bull’s blood, which we
See spread across his broad black back, set free
From veins by banderillas in each shoulder.

The cape’s a blur, trailing white lines behind
It, a nod to Impressionism. For
Art’s sake, the bull’s head lowers, aiming toward
The cape, although his tormentor’s nearby.

The man’s the center of the scene. His grace
At murdering belies his tranquil face.


--© 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

EX-TWILIGHT

Photo of sunset from orbit, taken by NASA STS-127 crew. From Wikipedia


April 30, 2010, 6:30 PM



Last day of April,
The kind of day
When evening looks like
Afternoon
To those
Slow to adjust;

As my partner and I
Pull out of
The restaurant’s dazzling
Parking lot, I say,
“It’s so nice. Why don’t we go
For a drive?”

-- Forgetting he has night work
Starting in an hour.

Back at home,
The blazing sun
Still lights up the drawn shades
That face the West.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

AND THE SLAM GOES UP IN SMOKE

photo by Nerval, from the English Wikipedia Project


God, I’d like to take
A big drag on a cigarette –
It’s been so long.

Remembering the night
I stormed out of
The slam, sat at
The bar and filled my lungs
With burning menthol
I’d just bought
From a machine.

And the black dude
Who had read the homophobic poem
And got the huge reaction
That drove me out of the room
Came up and stood next to me
With no idea who I was,
To get a drink,
And I just answered his hello
Like it was nothing,
Thinking maybe I should even
Offer him a blowjob
Just to blow his mind.
And Randy, the slam organizer,
Sidled up to me
And said, “I didn’t think you smoked,”
And I spat out, “I don’t,”
And left, and never came again,
Boycotting
The damn slam
Forever.

Smoke
And the memory of smoke
Have teeth for me.
The word
“Slam”
Has more than one meaning.

Later, I’d explain
The how and why
Of my perpetual new absence.
But for now,
I’d suck the fumes
That killed my father
And march out into the night,
A private kind
Of Pride Parade.

Only the taste of smoke
Is a fond memory,
A measure of defiance,
Doing something
That is not
“Normal”
For me.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

A SCRUFFY IRONY

(Old Beggar, by Louis Drewis, 1916)

I dress for comfort.
Sometimes, I forget
To shave.
Sometimes, I’m mistaken
For a bum -- even by people
Who know better,
Who have seen and heard
My work, if not
Appreciated it.

A local art gallery hostess,
Who’s been often
Rude to me,
Now cringes, fearful,
Should I pass her
On the street.
So I’ll glare at her
To add to the effect.
Frankly, it tickles me
A little – the absurd
Assumptions of
Her tiny mind.

What we lack in wealth,
We make up in
This power given to us
From a distance
By our disenfranchisers.
Since it’s about fear,
This is some sort
Of advantage.

As for the so-called “powerful”
Who rule so-called
“polite society,”
Those of us whose calls
They’d smugly not return
Can stalk them
Through dark alleys
In their dreams –
The demonized
At last
Supreme, at least
In certain situations.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

X AND Y

It horrifies you that I tell the truth
Because you look much better in a mask.
You’ve worn that mask since early in your youth.
It horrifies you that I tell the truth
When you’d prefer the gleaming photo booth,
And how it lets you look just as you ask.
It horrifies you that I tell the truth,
Because you look much better in a mask.

My view of you creates embarrassment,
Because I can’t blur certain features out.
Your soul wears earrings. I see where you’re bent.
My view of you creates embarrassment.
You wish you were a straight line, and you meant
To smirk, but all you managed was a pout.
My view of you creates embarrassment
Because I can’t blur certain features out.

If only I were not born to describe.
If only I could learn to shut my mouth.
But then, I couldn’t serve you the sweet bribe.
If only I were not born to describe,
To testify, to witness for the tribe.
But then I couldn’t kiss you North and South.
If only I were not born to describe.
If only I could learn to shut my mouth.

You’ve moved along. I’m sure you miss my skills.
You couldn’t stay and risk being exposed.
I take a sip, and swallow my nerve pills.
You’ve moved along. I’m sure you miss my skills;
I pleasured you. But talking, talking kills.
My mouth kept moving. So your door was closed.
You’ve moved along. I’m sure you miss my skills.
You couldn’t stay and risk being exposed.

To see you now, I’d have to close my eyes.
But I’d still see you stripped of your disguise.


-- © 2009 by Jack Veasey


All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.


This one is a sort of hybrid of petry forms. I used the triolet for the stanza form, then concluded it with a heroic couplet, like you would a sonnet. I like writing blatantly about sexual situations in forms -- there's a tension between the technical control and the subject matter.

The "mask" in this situation is a metaphor, not literal. This nameless guy from my checkered past is "straight" to his family and most of his friends.

X and Y is a play on words -- it refers to Ex and Why.