An American Papyrus: 25 Poems | Page 4

came, silently whispering themselves off?As Sandras or Cassandras;?Stared up at us for two hours; and disappeared.?The reappearance of their light enamored us, and we?left?And followed but found bats that offered?No shelter, and often caves we could not fit into?Or wer forbidden from entering.
We invested our capital?In the Silicon Valleys of this great nation.?Third-world bitches, in factories, became sick for our?chips.?We held power.?We bred metals and bought the ownership titles?Of properties, but could not find a home of the world.
We married again and brought forth children?Whom were duplicate strangers of ourselves.

The Retarded
Legs clamp around the rim--?The whole seated body sticking slightly?As moaning howls come from his?Paralyzed mouth.?It is after having?Put him to bed for a nap, and then the pot,?That this woman who would dab the bile?From his bed like one who napkins a spill from?A tablecloth, does not clean away?The substance behind the smell?Which predominates over the bathroom urinal?And aggravates his senses.?No woman to do these tasks,?And then to rim her hand?Under the butt;?No woman to drag him from?The pot,?After she has had his body bent?Toward her for the wiping,?And flop him onto the bench?In the shower; no woman...
She sits, cigarette limp in her mouth,?Thinking that the day has almost ended.?And the stars she stares out at?From the living room of the group home?She remembers are other earths limping?Half-free in the grips of other?Dying suns.

Houston
In Houston's summers the gods?Use the clouds as urinals?For three minutes daily.?In Houston the Boat-People?Come from planes.
Inner-city--intermingled and alone?Like its green Buffalo-Bayou?Strewn only in the imaginations?Of those who run along it briefly.
A mile from the bayou?The settled imagination of a?Nine year-old Vietnamese girl?Allows a mangled brown horse?To elongate and flatten out?To the reality of the rolled up carpet?(All because of the rain).?She feels the wetness now beginning?To seep into her clothes;?She raises herself; she sees the old Cuban?Walking from the house with hands?To the sky, as if to make the heavens appear a little?longer?In the manner that the downtown buildings,?From Dallas Street on, by their?Stories of windows draw down?the sky's enormity from measurement?Both extensive and inadequate;?And she follows him.
Apart?And yet they both think about the Vietnamese?Teenager with curlers in her hair?Who yells "boo" behind doors?That are entered;?The Cambodian boy who?To the view of the Montrose area?Pours on the bare shrubs,?And then strips and pours upon himself,?The water from a hose, and that both animal and plant?Glisten in the sun?As if they have been greased;?Falling into Houston's world of high buildings?From the descending planes?While hoping that the big world would?Not overpower their memories;?And the Cubans, in house #2 always yelling of "Miami."
They believe that Cambodian refugees?Always clean house #1,?That Africans never clean themselves,?and that Laotians often pour rice down the drains?Causing the faucets of the house to stop-up;?And that the welcome-center Manager?Does not care to bring over a little clothing?And a little food or take them on little trips?To the Social Security Office or the doctor's office?Past 5 p.m.--?But of different seconds in that minute,?Different lengths, and various perceptions.?She remembers the ugly man?In Vietnam that ran from the police?And then a scar around his eye?Opened from the clubs and the blood?Tried to escape him completely?As the body attempted to pull itself?From the street, and could not.?He remembers thinking that the?Cranium of an old man is always heavy?On the neck, and that his?Is becoming like this.
He desires to clasp the gate?That is around the Hispanic cemetary?And watches the cars on Allen Parkway, below,?Curve and toward the sun?Become a gleam moving endlessly?And instantly gone.?He desires to arrive there and?Read a few tombstones?Before and after watching.?She desires to imagine horses?Carrying her away from here to the West,?And other horses following with her family behind.?She desires to follow the Cuban that she fears?Since he is moving away from the refugee houses.?There are no horses in inner-city; and?The Hispanic cemetery cannot be found?To souls wanting to rest there.?"Este cerca de calle Alabama?"?He wonders,.
The rain stops. The hammers and saws?peel their sounds from a roof.?And he notices her steps?Despite the stronger sounds; halts;?And glances behind him as shingles fall ahead,?While wanting her to completely leave him?And wanting her to come with him.
In Houston's summers,?At certain areas, shingles like?The god's shit falls from housetops?And the dung dries in the air,?Flattens, and ricochets to sidewalks.?In Houston Cubans pack?From refugee houses?And plan to fly away into America, and depart?Far from the Castilian hot-dog vender?Of Herman Park waiting for?The thirsty and hungered?And those ignorant of what they want?But know that they want something?And so come to buy from her?Who wants people to come to her?For more than the chips?Because the hotdogs are overpriced,?Who formulates?That she is unskilled
And that a computer course would answer it all;?Far from the Netherland psychologists who?Stares at her ebony reflection?In Rothko Chapel's dyed pool;?Apart from others, and no-one, all?Pulling alone for humanity to both?Come and go from their lives.

The Politics of Herb's Woman
Waitresses