National Poetry Month 7: Playing Games

Playing Games

Jack Garcia

My mouth says, “Play with me,”

a sentence composed

of consonants and vowels

and the whoosh of air in between

the ticking of my tongue and teeth,

affected by the round of

my mouth. Lips that are good                                

at kissing or giving head,

but not so great at whistling;

nothing comes out my lips

but air, cold and biting like winter

winds that rip 

my lips.  Lips that get too chapped,

no matter how much Vaseline I rub

on them in the mornings,

sticking like the peanut butter

I lick and suck off the spoon,

my little skin flakes like a frilly fringe framing

my teeth.  Teeth filled now with metal

dots (like dice showing snake eyes)

where once were cavities,

where once were metal

braces, for two years and two months,

the brackets snagging on 

my lips when I smiled.  I smile

even when you hurt me, or worse,

when I hurt you.  I praise, I wound,

I profess many truths I don’t believe

anymore, giving lip service to prophets,

lovers, and gods like vomit from

my mouth, swilling in the toilet

when I’ve had too much to drink.

Greedy and deceitful, mine is a mouth

which has often lied… lies so comforting

I wrap them around me

like a fringed blanket to keep

my mouth from quivering in the cold

as you roll snake eyes and land on Park Place.

“Yow owe me 1500 dollars,” I say, chewing coyly

on my hotel.  You shove rainbow money into my grinning mouth,
choking me with my own hidden agendas like the tongue I can’t roll

into a taco but, boy, can I roll it over you.

National Poetry Month 6: Exuvia

Exuvia

Jack Garcia 

A frantic woman wailing in the night,

for help, she begs, and answers to her plight.

Four teens come running out the door to see

a hanging man like cobwebs in the tree. 

My son, my son, she screeches at the moon,

with fists like rocks slung at his warm cocoon.

No flying butterfly, but fetid flies

that swarm severely ‘round the thing that dies. 

At just sixteen, the smallest girl steps up

and like a spider climbs the web to cup

her hands around the noose to free the prey.

A thud, a shriek, the others look away. 

One sad cicada fallen from his shell,

for no one heard the buzzing he knew well.

National Poetry Month 5: Peter

Peter

(A found poem from a page of J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan) 

I am

sharp

silence

listening for

quiet

adventure.

National Poetry Month 4: Religion

Religion

(A found poem from a page of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter)

 Antique

angels

lifting

the

mystic

sanctified

tongues.

Faith is

proof

of           frailty.

National Poetry Month 3: Dirt

Dirt
Jack Garcia

 

The rich soil between my fingers.

The smell of the earth.  The way

it supports me, pushes me up

like a dandelion. One minute,

all yellow-petaled and cheery.

Rooted and strong.

Then suddenly all fluffy-headed,

scattered about by whatever

wind the world wishes to dismiss

me with.  A small child with dirt

under her fingernails grabs me

by the neck and exhales,

using me to get her wish.

It’s either she or me, I see.

This soil isn’t rich enough

for the both of us.

National Poetry Month 2: "Tell Us a Little About Yourself"

“Tell Us a Little About Yourself”

Jack Garcia 

What do I say?

Do I tell the room that I’m afraid of matches,

or that I get uncomfortable around big dogs

that like to jump on me, or that my favorite cocktail

switches between a Coke and Rum or a Margarita

or a Long Island Iced Tea depending on the night? 

Do I tell them that I’ve made out in a baseball dugout

or that I’ve had four teeth pulled

or that my biggest fear in life is that I’ll amount to nothing,

or worse, that I’ll amount to the wrong thing?

Do I tell them I watched every season of Glee,

even when everyone hated it? That I can’t whistle?

That I don’t care?

That I sometimes talk to myself when I’m alone?

That I stand in the mirror, pinching my stomach rolls in disgust?

Do I tell them that I’m not sure about God anymore

because if He exists, then He’s just one more person I’ve disappointed? 

Do I tell them I once saw a little girl

get run over by a produce truck in Chile?

Watermelons fell out of the back

when the driver hit the brakes,

breaking into pieces—smashed

red pulp like the little girl’s head.

The neighbors sprayed the streets down

with their garden hoses and the water flowed

like pink lemonade around my shoes.

Do I tell them how I wanted to cry?

How I wanted to go to her

and with the power of the Spirit

raise her from the dead?

Heal her?

Anything? 

No.

I say I’m from Colorado and sit down.

National Poetry Month 1: Moving Pictures

Moving Pictures

Jack Garcia

 

“You’re not doing it right,” he said,

packing the powdered herbs more tightly,

lighting the fire that will start

the moving picture show. 

“You need to inhale deeper.

With your stomach, not just your chest.”

I try again, coughing, laughing a little.

The smoke scratches at my throat

with its vaporish claws.

Dust-smeared images flicker

on the torn screen. Faded

Technicolor slows down

and slows down

until it stops with a rip

in the film and a cigarette burn. 

All life is on pause.

Then, slowly, the colored lights return

and in slow-motion I unwrap him,

his clothes like rolling papers,

and we laugh at how funny our movie is.

I inhale all of him, not just with my chest,

but with my whole being

and he tickles my throat.

Metal Meets Metal

Lazy Sunday
swaddled in blankets
like baby Jesus,
binge-watching Glee
(unlike baby Jesus)
when Wes asks
to borrow my car,
the maroon one
with the funny
seatbelts.  Sure,
I say, why the
hell not?

Mouth stuffed
with chips and dip,
fingers fumble
for the controller:
Hulu is having trouble
playing this title right
now.  Stupid Hulu.
Phone vibrates
on faraway end
table.  What the hell
does Wes want?
I wonder.

Just minutes before,
(mere blocks away)
metal meets metal,
one car meets
a second, and in
seconds my lazy
Sunday is no more.
Hulu starts up as
my car dies, and while
Rachel melodramatically
sings, Wes' voice
comes in clear.

I wrecked your car,
he says, I'm so sorry.
And I am, too.
Sorry it happened
to him; sorry
it had to be me.
Don't blame yourself,
I want to say,
It could happen to anyone.
But all I manage is
a whispered Jesus
as Hulu pauses again.

To Borrow

A "painting" of our new abode, using the Waterlogue app.  Isn't it pretty?

To Borrow

Houses are rentable, yes,

and cars are too, I hear,

although I’ve never rented one.

My own car is so run-down 

it's just sad.  What’s sadder

is I bought it that way,

with a seatbelt that goes across

my lap and a separate one

for my upper body.  I joke

I’m buckling up to blast off

into space where the house

I’m renting looks like the ones

you play Monopoly with,

only mine’s blue not red.

It’s also run-down, the house,

but in a beautiful kind of way—

the way a mother looks

in line at the supermarket

with a cartful of diapers

and Hamburger Helper,

one hand lovingly laced

around the fudgy fingers

of a messy child,

clutching clipped coupons

in the other hand as if one

might be Wonka’s golden

ticket promising to whisk

her away in The Great

Glass Elevator up to a place

where cars never break,

roofs never leak

and run-down isn’t even
a possibility.

Not-Quite-Paisley

I realize I never fully updated everyone in regards to the job situation. I was eventually offered the job at American Eagle, but unfortunately the exact job title and responsibilities changed from when I first interviewed to when I was offered it weeks later. Meanwhile, Zales was able to give me full-time hours again, so it turned out that sticking with Zales would be more lucrative. So I stayed.

In other news, our house is looking awesome as we get more settled. We've been here almost a month now and we absolutely love it. Brian and I are also in finals week for this semester at UVU, so we're only a few tests away from freedom! Oh, and I had two prose poems published in UVU's Touchstones, one of which won Honorable Mention. Pretty cool, huh? It's quasi-autobiographical, documenting a less-than-awesome chapter in our relationship... but it sure made for a great piece of writing.

Siân Griffiths, the judge who critiqued my piece, said, "I was so taken by the way this poem turned. If ever I made the mistake of thinking I might know where the poem was headed, I soon saw my error. Yet each surprise felt utterly earned. In other words, the poem didn't surprise for the sake of surprise, but rather it surprised because life is surprising..."

She's right.  My life surprises me all the time.

Not-Quite-Paisley

You weren’t with me the day I picked the green-blue, not-quite-paisley curtains which frame the not-so-great view of a dentist’s office. But he was. He whispered his advice on accent colors and pulled me away behind discounted duvets and we both know that I let him, his hands ticking over me in slow, circular motions. Framed, near the window, is a photo of a younger me pulling you back into an embrace, kissing your cheek. Other framed photos, mostly from New York City, where we were wed, frame the mirror—black-and-white images of trees, buildings and an abandoned bicycle.  “I’ll return the curtains,” I suggest, replacing the batteries in our clock.  “No need,” you say, with injured eyes, pulling me back to bed, back to you, all interlocking arms and legs, disturbing the duvet.  I cry as you kiss my neck and out the window I only see mountains and blue, limitless sky.  We both agree the view is better from the bed.

Poem for Jessie

April has brought a lot of really fun and awesome things into my life, but it has also brought some terrible ones. Well, one terrible one in particular, and that is the death of a good friend of ours, Jessie. We met Jessie about a year ago when our friend Emily started dating her. The two of them seemed perfect for each other, which I know is cliché to say, but it was the absolute truth in their case. They were both so happy, so in love, and when they asked us to be in their wedding this coming May, we were overjoyed. But then real life came in to remind us all that things aren't always so perfect. Things are often difficult. Things are often sad.

Jessie passed away to Gastric Cancer on April 3, 2014. I remember her laughter and her spontaneity the most. And boy, could that girl dance. Emily would text me almost every other weekend: "What are you boys doing? Let's go clubbing!" And we'd go out and Jessie was always the life of the party. I remember whenever "We Can't Stop" by Miley Cyrus came on she would get especially excited. People always told Jessie that she reminded them of Miley. A far more beautiful Miley in my opinion. The song still makes me think of her every time I hear it.

This one's for you, Jessie.

Stolen

The club lights

flutter their aroused,

anxious butterflies;

their sweaty, shining

palms leave stolen

kisses of every hue

on your dancing body,

blushing timidly

as they do, but only

for a moment.

Only on their turn.

For who could hope

to keep you?

You, an angelic

trickster, taking

silky drags from your

e-cig, running long,

slender fingers through

stylish, cropped hair,

blowing puffs

of hefty exuberance

into the air with every

laugh.

The lights have found

new you to kiss… your musical

eyes, your glittery teeth.

You smile and sing along,

moving your body to the beat.

We can’t stop

and we won’t stop.

Constantly in motion,

moving and grooving

—a solar system

in tight, ripped jeans

and boots.  Feathers

dangle from your earlobes.

You ignite the night

with the lighter that

is you.  Hot and bright.

The club’s lesser lights

enjoy the chase, reaching

for you always but only

catching smoke.