A Confession & a Communion

A Confession & a Communion is a lil corner of the internet for me to share poets' work that I appreciate and wanna boost. Enjoy! -DG

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“A Trashcan Full of Tears”

Rodney’s tobacco spit jar is perched on the coffee table he built,
every now and then he grabs it
hocks a big gob of brown saliva into a paper towel
that’s folded, wedged between the glass sides.
He’s been on the couch for the past couple of days;
I’m too young to really understand the whole story, but have gathered
the vague details of a stabbing at the only titty bar for fifty miles
where Rodney is working as a bouncer.
I don’t know who he pissed off, and I know better than to ask.
Brooks and Dunn are wailing on CMT,
while the picture in picture is tuned
to some pre-Fox News talk show
about how the other guys are ruining our country.
It all melts together–
the shouting, the spitting, Rodney’s occasional groan and the music–
the way the paper towel slowly melts
to the bottom of the mason jar.

Well, shit, Rodney mutters under his breath
And I don’t ask what he’s murmuring about
because I’m not sure if I want to know.
Rodney makes me uncomfortable,
laying on the couch in just his underwear
half-covered by a crocheted afghan,
a cross around his neck,
his bloated belly resting on the cushions.
Tape rests over the stitches in his side
and the line of blood where he was punctured
by some hillbilly’s knife
is visible through the gauze.
Something about his indifference to his near nakedness,
to his belly leaking plasma, the spittoon,
the screaming pundits, the twang of the guitar
all on display in front of the neighbor kid coming by
to ask if his daughters can play
makes me squirm.
He groans as he moves to spit again
and I can see the ripple of pain on his face
as the sensation rips through his belly.

A few days before the stabbing,
Rodney had his two daughters out working in the yard
and I watched him yelling at the pair like they were hired hands
like they were one of those guys screwing our nation,
“I swear to God, if y’all two don’t get moving, Ima give
y’all a reason to move.”
One of the girls had started to cry, so he dragged the trash can over,
through the leaves, the grass, the poison ivy and dandelions,
the random scrub that speckled the yard
and had her stand over it to catch her tears,
Rodney told her to stay there
until she filled it up.
And she did.
She stood outside crying until after the sun sank behind the hill,
while every now and again Rodney would shout at her
to make damn sure she filled the can all the way to the top.

Im ten, but I have to hold my tongue,
have to hold my sense of justice at bay
root myself to the floor and wait for the girls to come play.
Because there is something savage in me
something disrespectful and made of ice or fire;
I want to punch Rodney in the gut, with every whine
that escapes past the plug tucked in his lip,
want to pull the trash can from the kitchen
position his face over the stinking
remains of yesterday’s lunch
and tell him
to fill the fucking can.

---
Amber James can be followed here. She's got an excellent collection of poetry ready to be published, so if you do that sort of thing: hit 'er up!

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"Grandma B"

I think her ashes are buried under the old garage. The last time I looked I found a box with her name on it, waiting, without a place to be sent. No stamps or return address. Marianna Bennett. Remains.

When Saint Ana sent a palm frond into the power lines that settled on the old garage roof. When the fire finally took the rafters and the walls caved in, I wondered if she could feel it twice. Could she feel it was her final destination to rest what was left of her hollowed bones. I wonder if there was pause in the outer layer of life, where she looked back and saw what we could never do. Set her free into the desert sands. Instead, now she is concreted into someone else’s foundation. Still holding up the weight of forgiveness.

I feel like I have to keep painting her face because too many tears have washed away how she looked before hospice. Gray skinned, just barely lingering there. When I shut my eyes I see the last light she held.

Now that I think about it, maybe she’s always had ash in her veins. Maybe the coals left on cigarette ends in her green glass ashtrays are what she coughed out in raspy wishes for the end.

I have to keep painting her face so that when I remember her, I’m in the West Covina house, in the backyard with her blind dog. There are still plums in the tree, that makes her smile. I couldn’t help but take a bite. “They’re not ripe,” I hear her say. I take another bite anyways.

I always thought I’d have more summers there. Instead I have so many winters to visit the memories. I have to keep painting her face so that I don’t remember her sunken eyes. Slowly blinking in a plastic bed while her daughter cooked meth in the garage of her home. After she was finally gone we went to clean that old house I loved. But I kept finding my aunt’s baggies everywhere, even in grandma’s green glass candy dishes. The ones with the plastic wrapped barrels of root beer.

I have to keep painting her face, layer and layer of paint like I’m trying to add life to a ghost. I have to keep painting her face so I can remember her before cancer had its way.

---
Kali Bennett can be followed here. Keep your eyes open for the release of her first collection titled Who Cares.

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"Young Woman with A Maroon 5 Tattoo"

I don’t regret falling in love with 
a stranger on the internet; with tiny
lips, a cute nose, and questionable politics.

I don’t regret that I’ll never have
a bookshelf filled with Sailor Moon manga and
books about serial killers, or own His and
Hers matching guns, or a daughter named Liberty.

I don’t know if she regrets telling me
the names of all her cats and
snakes, or sending me nudes, or
saying she loves me.

There is someone for everyone; someone
to break your heart or waste your time.
My only regret is that I never told
the truth about how I feel:
which is that Maroon 5 sucks.

---
Follow Nikolai Garcia here. Long Beach, East LA, there's always some incredible event he's either helping put together or reading at. I can't imagine LA poetry without him.

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¿Qué sabe de amor un acuario?

Me se de memoria
todos los piropos que existen
en el internet
para dedicartelos
en un poema cursi.

Mi corazón esta lleno de pixeles
Confesionario de burbujas azules
No tengo nada
mas que amor para dar.


El panico se adueña de la tinta––
el cortisol de la pluma––
y aun así me atrevo
a escribirte versos.


Como alma pragmática
no te prometo nada eterno.

Es el efecto del amor intelecto—
seré aburrido
pero al menos
te soy honesto.


Otra taza de café por la mañana
con raíces firmes en la comunidad
y la alegría al ritmo de son jarocho.

Cada mañana el andar
de los vehiculos
es el primer canto…
 
hoy me enamoro
de hierro oxidado.


primero te persigo
como gato pardo
y quizás viviremos
hasta usar un marcapasos
 
En tus caderas
nena
que tu cuerpo arda con deseo
hasta volverse cenizas. 

Siempre es verano
entre tus piernas.


Amanecemos en una sabana de pétalos         
empapada de lluvia

la bienvenida al año
con devoción al orgamso  
somos nubes dandose un beso 
cubriendo el azul infinito con los labios.


amor gris hecho con agua maldita.

Lluvia pecadora

                           conjuro en la cama

bebe de mí

                     hasta morir.


Que cese el pálpito en mi pecho
y aunque te vayas muy lejos
cada vez que cierres los ojos
veas a dios
y te acuerdes de mi


Siempre es verano
entre tus piernas
y solo
desnudo contigo
puedo dormir. 

duermen los planetas en tus ojos.


El amor es música en cualquier parte del universo. 

Sonic Boom Eterno:
saxofón y contrabajo
viajando por el tiempo.

What does an aquarius know about love?

I know by heart
all the pick up lines that exist
on the internet
to dedicate them
to you
in a corny poem.

My heart is full of pixels
confessional of blue bubbles
I have nothing
but love to give.


Panic takes over the ink––
cortisol over the pen––
and still I dare
to write you verses.


As a pragmatic soul
I don't promise you anything eternal.

It is the effect of intellectual love—

I may be boring but at least
I'm honest with you.


Another cup of coffee in the morning
with firm roots in the community
and joy to the rhythm of son jarocho.

Every morning the walk
of the vehicles
is the first song...

today I fall in love
with rusted iron.


First I chase you
like a cat in heat
and maybe we will live
until we use a pacemaker

on your hips
nena
let your body burn with desire
until it turns to ashes.

It's always summer
between your legs.


We wake up in a bedsheet of petals
soaked in rain

We welcome the year
devoted to an orgasm
we are clouds kissing
covering the infinite blue with our lips.


gray love made with cursed water

sinful rain

   spell in bed

drink from me


 ‘till I die.


Let the throbbing in my chest cease
and even if you live far away
whenever you close your eyes
you see god
and remember me


It's always summer
between your legs
and alone
naked with you
I can sleep.

the planets sleep in your eyes.


Love is music anywhere in the universe.

Eternal Sonic Boom:
saxophone and double bass
traveling through time.


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Follow Iván Salinas here. Lotta excellent poems, and bad ass work in the San Fernando Valley and at the poetry epicenter Beyond Baroque.

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Follow Jennifer Baptiste here. And don't miss the last two events this Summer at Pop Hop!

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Follow Laura Sermeño here. Order her book! She only needs to sell nine more copies to break even.

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Follow James Norman here. This poem was published in This Chapbook was Officially Banned by the SLC Psych Ward on Bottom Dollar Press.

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