The Poet Who Talks Dirty to the Gods
Beyond the granite wall, the names of soldiers murmur in onyx. I listen to the secrets of adults in the bloodhound den beneath my father’s porch. Wives stab their sons. Poison their daughters. I want to play centerfield for the Brooklyn Dodgers. To steal home like Jackie. To dare the gods to play by my rules. I have told so many lives. Portraits of Chief Joseph and Ishi crowd museum walls. Saxophone riffs sour. I spring from the loins of Gilgamesh. Annie Oakley split the ash from the cigarette in my mouth with a rifle and a mirror. I stalk Hector before the gates of Troy. I have lived so many lies. Tigers pass over my sleeping bag near the tunnels of Cu Chi. My hair grays before the photographer plots the focus. I’m the Shango medallioned-and-cologned cuckolds fear in their rodeo pajamas when they realize they will always sleep alone. The ball rises against a warrior’s sky in a moment of yearn and dare. Turning my back to home, I sprint toward the black wall.
Author: Michael Brockley
Photo Credit: James Garcia on Unsplash
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