Collection

Most men collect wood, bricks, spring crops, soil,

then build homes and gardens. Afterwards,

they become windows and stare for months.

 

Domestic men collect bottles, glass and plastic,

kitchen sinks, countertops, martini to shot glasses.

They fashion rafts, life jackets, sails, and oars.

Then pray for good winds and row.

 

The heartbreaker steals everything,

sticks, stones, lighters, cotton, vodka and syrup,

apples, carnival tickets, hot dogs, salt, wings and flowers.

 It was the finest picnic I’d seen.  

 

Me, well, I’ve travelled very far

for my beloved. Collecting what I could remember,

which proved in the end, counterfeited—I  

couldn’t recognize her.

 

I threw a torch into my wilderness—

 

First it devoured the forest I planted,

then the ships with her cargo,

the cities went next.

 

alas the fire smoldered me.

 

So then who am I now?

 

If her skin is all honeycombs, blue silk,

and ice, then I must be an anchor,

a paw, a kerosene lamp,
someone intrigued,

if not possessed.

Flash: Meeting

Flash: A Support Group

 

Welcome to Flash, a private meeting for those who don’t remember dying. I’m Joseph Ileto and I’m told there’s a post office named after me. It’s made up of nine stars; Will Smith, Tom Cruise—I’m not really good at jokes, sorry. Let’s share our last recollections. I’ll go first.  It was August 10^th; sunlight flirted atop schools, temples, homes. It lunged forward and outward, contact with it made you lighter. Mothers propelled out of their mini-vans and onto their front lawn with Starbucks. I was heading to my postal truck when a man interrupted me midway. He asked if I could mail some letters. Now, there’s a solar system in me.

 

I was covering my wounds and screaming when I arrived. The receptionist asked me to remain calm, and rightfully pointed out I was dead. I removed my hands. The blood vanished. She handed me coffee and a pen. The contract asked me to acknowledge I knew why I was here. I didn’t. The off season mug was heavy, white with red trims. In the middle a bright Christmas tree. Honestly tacky. I threw the awful mug. I stormed out into, well, after-life. Big place, I always thought it’d be a basement, closet or some small storage. I walked forty days before looking over my shoulders. I couldn’t recognize the place. Not the plantations, the railroads, or the tree with a million nooses. But I recognized the receptionist with her pen and ridiculous mug. I picked up the pen and signed off I was shot. I’ve been talking since. They even gave me the tawdry mug, see. Here hold it. It keeps me from talking. Get it. Talking mug? 

 

The boy takes the mug. He’s white, and a towering six feet. I’ve been helping him each week since his arrival. He slumps, head propped into his knuckles. He says in slow English that I’m the ghost. He can’t recall our encounters. His name is Chris Kinison:

 

I’m clearly not dead! Yesterday, Independence Day, I was hanging out at Texaco when these chinks came. Three of them in my America? No way. I yelled, “Chinks, Gooks, Fuckers; Go home!” Which is fine, cause, my best-friend; he’s half you, Filipino. They were real spooked.   Hilarious. I wouldn’t let them out. First gook comes out to reason and bam—punch. Gook two rushes in. We surround them, exchanging punches. I’m bigger so it doesn’t hurt! Gook three lunges at me with his eyes close. He’s flying like sunlight. It’s warm. There’s something wrong. Fuck, there’s blood. It’s his. It has to be. Help, I can’t push it back in. It’s leaking. Fuck. Fuck. So much—

 

Chris looks up, and sobs, “I was stabbed.” He tends his wound, a lonely Jupiter, on his stomach and releases. Does it again. It’s real. He tells me,” I’m not supposed to be here.”  I ask for the mug back, place my hands on his back, “I know. I shouldn’t be here either.”