April 1, 2011 § 7 Comments
by AJ Hayes
Last time I saw you we were walking
down a low-tide beach just north of
Fort-De-France in Martinique. The land
crabs making their way up the sand
under sea grass parasols. We were
practicing the proper uses and
pro/nun/ci/a/tions of C’est Va.
A daylight moon skipping in and out
of wispy clouds. Black gulls dipping wing tips in the
surf line like ink pens. Your breasts were sunless triangles
twinning the coarse glisten of your pubic thatch.
Your hips filled my hands like a chalice.
You tasted thick as salted honey.
Caribe black faces watched us from the road above.
I heard later that you didn’t come back
one day. Just kept going deeper.
Were the stars as bright as the sun that day?
Was it raining down light all around you?
Sometimes I hear your laughter
riding the penny whistle wind.
March 6, 2011 § 7 Comments
by AJ Hayes
It’s about a burnout bar a long time ago that smelled like puke and sweat and watch their eyes real close because when they go pinpoint something’s going to happen, fast. And don’t be the one
in front of me when my switch gets flipped.
It’s about those 1960s wonder years you all adore when one of the classiest guys I’ve ever known popped his brains all over his bathroom wall because he’d got outed and lost his job. Gray and white and red all over. Peace and Love and Woodstock. Yeah. For some.
It’s about JFK and RFK and MLK and so many wars I lost count and dead kids in uniforms laid end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to end to . . . well, you figure it out. Please. I’m beggin’ here.
It’s about chatroom ghettos late at night and I’m remotely sliding her panties down the last sweet curve of the tight rump of a girl I’ve never seen who is texting: Takemetakemenowohpleasepleaseplease.
(Or maybe it’s a silverback pedophile slowly roping me into a world I never thought of.)
It’s about a sea container with thirteen young Chinese women stuffed inside all dead on a San Francisco dock and eight old Mexican men lying still and cold in the border hills back of Tecate. They died trying for the American Dream. The same dream we gave up on. Life sure is a funny old raccoon, ain’t she?
It’s about looking at a black man in a business suit taking an oath on an old bible on a chill January morning and with the sun bursting inside of me, thinking, Finally, by God, Finally.
It’s about me caught in the hazel pure infinity of my two-year-old granddaughter’s eyes, thinking, ain’t it all just too beautiful?