NSPP 2019
discotheque addresses newly christened patron
*the scene opens somewhere and sometime upon a dimly-lit nightclub. a few men dance interspersed within the safe confines of its strobe lights. a donna summer song plays in the background. a healthy love of theatrics is maintained above all else*
DISCOTHEQUE:
there was hunger in her sequin, a craving in her feather,
coarse lungs still pink as walgreens foundation
artfully applied to cracking flesh.
andy warhol, immortalized in pastel print, watches from the back of
her scratching throat.
labeija, heart equal parts indignation
and glory, reincarnated as faded crystals on her bodice.
garland found crooning in a handheld mirror. (it is too dim to see slippers
in my backstage light, but
her smile never seems to fade)
she’ll tell you
God can only be found in jose cuervo
and pink food coloring.
PATRON:
What if I were to prefer something stronger?
something crimson red?
DISCOTHEQUE:
there was hunger in his suit jacket, a sobbing ecstacy in his necktie.
he had no time to take it off, his heart races to the dancefloor
before his feet get a chance.
nancy reagan, immortalized as torn pieces of quilt, watches from behind the velvet-esque rope on my doorstep.
milk, heart still beating for his
martyred cause, reincarnated as the pulse of my jukebox.
hay found dancing the funky chicken in my back corner. (he no longer feels the need
to hide in my backstage light,
and my smile never seems to fade)
he’ll tell you
God can only be found in nameless men
and their willingness to do the hustle
PATRON:
What if I were unable to dance,
bones too fragile to hustle or bump?
DISCOTHEQUE:
I know you were john or adam or michael before
your name lingered uncomfortably
on jose cuervo’s breath.
before you came to worship mundane unfamiliarity.
before you stayed to worship the solidarity of it all. (I want to remind you that it is
perfectly fine to cry in my backstage light,
it is encouraged even)
one day, you will tell me
amidst all of my sequins and quilts and funky chickens
PATRON:
God can only be found in donna summer
and led strobe lights.
DISCOTHEQUE:
I blow my speaker system in excitement,
a symptom of pure epileptic shock.
lullaby
“the first time ever i saw your face
i thought the sun rose in your eyes”
- Roberta Flack (1972);
sung via portable boombox in St. Mary’s Hospital.
my first sound was something gargled.
lullabies have always been wasted on me, so
my mother just wrapped me in her arms.
she was all tear-soaked wrists and an exhausted
grin. we cried out together, clinging to a
kinship.
my third-ever sentence was
no ketchup, my mother
says this with a knowing grin
and i know
nothing but utility. i had spent my life
as a fork sans tines, a bent knife. language as a
battering ram.
my two thousandth, seventy-second conversation was
an inexorable force of nature. my mother
neatly informed me
that my brain was wired differently.
there is something to be said about lullabies,
but I could only sleep wrapped up in my wires. my mother says it’s a
sensory thing.
my four hundred and eighty-sixth greeting was
an act of attempted suicide, my mother
does not speak to me in metaphor, and i was dedicated to mastering
literary device, and she could feel intention on my breath.
i thought she made quite a lot of fuss
over a greeting, over
“hi my name’s christian and i have autism”
my three millionth and somethingth poem was
a breakthrough. in my lifetime, i have been half-solved puzzle pieces and
a counted conversation. a miracle of early childhood intervention.
miracles have been my reason for existence,
my literary context.
it’s a miracle that i am writing this poem. i am only a
redemption story.
my first lullaby will be dedicated to my mother.
the first time ever she saw my face, there was nothing to
redeem. no wires to uncross. no puzzle to solve
only tear soaked wrists and an exhausted
grin. we cry out together, and i am nothing but a
son.
dear mom,
here is my lullaby:
“and the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave
to the dark and endless skies”
-Roberta Flack (1972);
sung via tear soaked wrists and glorious sacrifice;
our first song
the dying man writes a cookbook: told in two poems
ingredients
saccharin
the FDA reported that
artificial sweeteners (my saccharin,
your pulse) may lead to
cancer.
an inexorable punctuation mark.
to be a child is
to be sugar water, all natural, no
genetic modification.
a testament to the power
of potential energy.
use a healthy serving of saccharin in your dish.
your veins are too tired to fuss with
kinetics.
a kid cuisine
you wish you had a cuisine,
a real cuisine. its ancient syllables would trickle down parched lips, and
onto the tiles of your oma’s kitchenette. you never had
an oma.
this cookbook won’t age well, its dust encases
lungs. coughs out a story.
a heritage. but its plot has been described by the new yorker as
overly saccharine.
boring.
go to the supermarket (aisle 16
by the hungry men) and pick up a kid cuisine.
for your great-great-grandchildren.
don’t worry about the sugar content, it’s all
artificial anyways.
ibuprofen
the FDA reports that saccharin (my heartbeat,
your veins) raises blood sugar.
you don’t know about all that,
but
all this legacy talk is giving you
a headache.
recipe
there is no
way to sugarcoat what’s been lovingly dipped
in saccharin.
you are boring because you are boring.
you are drill boring hole through
family tree, a testament to the power
of potential energy.
there have been about seventy
five thousand generations since the dawn of
primordial men.
wars waged.
armies conquered. old blood
dripping from sugar-rotted teeth, all to create you.
you.
an inexorable punctuation mark.
follow these instructions carefully:
sprinkle saccharin on my tombstone
give this cookbook to my oma.
smash my teeth in,
while you’re at it.
Love As An Epithet (The Epic of Calypso I,II,III; A Triptych for Sandro Botticelli; And The Young Homosexual Continues To Dream)
The Epic of Calypso I
hand slammed bongo,
hand slams bongo
hands slam the bongo
I was once told
the secret to re-animating the dead was Calypso.
On Trinidad, my great-grandmother’s bones would crack back into place
On Tobago, her lithe body would Dance the Day-O until the bones cracked out again,
the ghost of Harry Belafonte watching over the spirit of my dying mother as
hand slammed bongo,
hand slams bongo
hands slam the bongo
The cacophony of singing ladies only could grow louder
Than the silence within barren kitchen drawers, a mattress sans box-springs,
within a father’s glance, stern and devoid of rhythm.
Unpredictable.
And my hands will slam the bongo.
On Trinidad and Tobago, old souls can become new again.
My body pulled to jerk around dusten ground by the old tradition of voodoo
My heart bursts from the inside of pincushioned doll and out,
Spilling onto the dusten ground of a childhood home as
Hip jumped in line
Hip jumps into the line
Their hips have never been in a line
My mother and father have bid Jamaica Farewell many years ago
Dying slowly in the comfort of midwestern towns, the nearest marimba a lifetime away
Their throats are now unable to sing. I would force them if I could.
I live in my father’s glance, devoid of rhythm
And I will dance to the beat of Calypso
A Triptych for Sandro Botticelli
botticelli sat at his easel,
awestruck
at the breast of young Venus,
bathed in the immaculate flower of Chloris, hurled by the winds of Zephyr.
he studied his mythology quite carefully, obsessed with epithet he cried
“Oh Goddess of the Sea Foam!
Oh Lover Borne of Cronus!
Give me your beauty. Your sweet and loving song!”
botticelli sat at his easel,
bloodied,
streaks of pale indigo and verdant green running down his chin,
his wounded body cursing donatello, his paintbrush snapped in half by raphael.
as medici claimed Her body, he sketched La Primavera in florentine dust, etching
“Oh My Goddess of Sea Foam!
Oh My Titan Borne Lover
I will have your beauty. Your sweet and loving song”
botticelli sat at his easel,
alone.
florentine had many beautiful voices, songs of mary, mother of god.
songs of rye bread and olives
songs of hope.
but none would ever be as beautiful as Her sweet and loving song.
The Epic of Calypso II
*Sung by the Ghost of Harry Belafonte*
young child of hope dances on my islands his eyes like persimmons and mine a poisonous woman determined to keep my subject my spirit will dance on the ashen ground evermore his a young flower that may never bloom in a garden of weeping willows he stands under his ancestors with broken bones and he will do nothing but crack them into place he is too subtle so let me tell you the true secret to re-awakening your dead
hand slammed bongo,
hand slams bongo
hands slam the bongo
And The Young Homosexual Continues To Dream
My fake ID is flush to my body,
burning a flame deep inside of my pocket
The drunken bouncer officially christens me as a 26 year old man named Geoff, and
I step into the center of a gay bar,
somewhere in San Francisco, with something by Cher in the background.
and I stand paralyzed, and
A pair of eyes lock on to mine, and we tango to Take Me Home.
I need them to take me home.
Wrapped in his arms, loved without complication.
Tyra Banks always says you can smile with your eyes
I know that he would appreciate that reference
He’s in a gay bar
They all would, and
He walks over, a combination of jaguar ready to pounce and drag queen ready to vogue and,
I feel as if...
I feel as if...
as if the details are beginning to get a little fuzzy.
as if I don’t know what to write down next.
as if this wish fulfillment is unhealthy.
There is no gay bar
There was no eye contact
There is only a sixteen year old boy hurriedly writing a paean to experiences and loves and a future he fears may never come
And the young homosexual continues to dream.
The Epic of Calypso III
I was once told
That for another seven years I may never leave the island of Calypso
On Trinidad the sounds of maracas will blaze uncomfortably in my year
On Tobago my tired bones become a half-jubilant Bahia Girl
Eyes wet from exhaustion as I beg my dying mother to dance but
Mama Look A Boo Boo
My Mama Look A Boo Boo
My Mama Will Always Look A Boo Boo
I told myself I would never bid Jamaica Farewell, but my father had other plans
The unpredictability in his eyes was not vulnerability,
it is nothing but an empty kitchen drawer, a mattress without box springs
Eyes that are incapable of dance.
But my father would never admit that.
On Trinidad and Tobago, our souls were supposed to become new again
My mother’s limbs would crack back into it’s rightful place on the dusten ground
My father eyes would jerk around until they stared into mine
But Calypso cannot force our souls to do anything, but
My hand slams the bongo
But I am too tired to slam anymore
It was never about Calypso, or Trinidad and Tobago
It was about a mother who I swore was dead and eyes I could do nothing but fix
I stuffed my voodoo doll heart back into my chest
I apologized for the mess I made
I sailed away from Calypso