Poetry Section: Pragmatic Poems

2 Poems by Keith Gaboury
2 Poems by Donald Vincent

Tattoo by Keith Gaboury
Robert Frank’s The Americans
Public park — Cleveland, Ohio; 1955 / 1956

I.
Her curves tell the story:
you stepped inside a tattoo shop

and demanded the perfect woman:
hips swaying to the bend of a road;
eyes asserting she is here only for you.

II.
You now rest where leaves fall
in the sparse grass. A dream comes:

returning to a suburban fence
you painted just last weekend —
sauntering through, a dog yelps,
a woman, devoted to her man’s command
waits for your touch.

III.
Once snapping awake to a Midwest dusk,
no dog, no wife, no home —

shivering over the tree’s roots,
you walk to Sonora Ave. and E. 31st St.
with a white blanket and a tattoo:

do you feel the crack of your eyelid’s
blink, the moisture as night
descends on Cleveland sunlight?

DREAM JOB COVER LETTER by Donald Vincent
To Whom It May Concern:

If school were football, I’d be scoring touchdowns,
but a four year degree isn’t worth much now.
Out racing coworkers quicker than Jeff Gordon,
filing paperwork effortlessly like dunks from Jordan.
I’ve labored for free, so you’re able to afford me.
Put through practice job trainings like an Olympic
athlete— not that I over achieve, you just under expect.

Along with my work ethic inside the workplace,
I am a creative and energetic, poet-activist
who mingles with the homeless, holding up signs
that say: For Food – Will Write Advertisements, or
For Loan Repayments – Will be Your Indentured Servant.
 
If given the word and power pointed in the right direction,
I’m an expert with organizational skills, which I excel in.
Interested in using my talents for marketing your public
image. In church, I once made God look like a gimmick.

I will eat your crumbs when the cookie crumbles.
When the recession slows, I’ll keep us out of trouble.
Just one thing I forgot to mention, if possible,
I’d strongly prefer a phone interview.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon.

Shivering in the Garden by Keith Gaboury

You’re standing under a streetlight’s glow.
Your body, sheathed in particles of light: particles of sexuality.
I soon find myself next to you
on a freezing Boston night.

Your body, sheathed in particles of light: particles of sexuality
for a slip skirt more-skin-the-better shape
on a freezing Boston night.
Oh yes glossy lips cannot be missed

for a slip skirt more-skin-the-better shape.
Why do you insist on suffering?
Oh yes glossy lips cannot be missed
as you utter I gotta show off my shit for guys

but really why do you insist on suffering?
Why is femininity shivering beside roses in the Public Garden?
Sure you gotta show off that shit for guys
yet is that the best an empowered woman can do?

Why is femininity shivering beside roses in the Public Garden?
Try as I might, I cannot find feminist discourse in your cosmic cleavage.
Is that the best an empowered woman can do?
Can I ever respect your mind with breasts so gorgeous?

Try as I might, I cannot find feminist discourse in your cosmic cleavage
or along your sultry skyscraper legs.
Can I ever respect your mind with breasts so gorgeous?
Your frost breath fogs my glasses when I move in to kiss you.

Once I take a step back, my eyes work your sultry skyscraper legs
as I fight to remember where the boundary between vanity and beauty rests.
Your frost breath fogs my glasses when I move in to kiss you
in Blue Blast eyeliner, Super Lustrous lipstick, push-up bra glory.

I ask you what’s the difference between vanity and beauty?
once you walk away from a streetlight’s glow.
I press my hand into yours — the sidewalk is laid out like a runway:
you’re all decked out in Blue Blast eyeliner, Super Lustrous lipstick, push-up bra glory
on a freezing Boston night.

Pick-Up by Donald Vincent
the celebration: groups of red shirts
thrust through transparent-paned glass
doors like a sea of red.

cars sit, humming in the parking lots.
outside the cars, sit the adults, waiting
to receive the oncoming wave of red.

a single red particle, I break loose from
the masses. There, in the sun at 3:15, I jump
affectionately in the arms of my mother.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

  • Follow Us On Twitter

    Error: Twitter did not respond. Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page.

  • WFW Facebook Page

    Like Us On FB

%d bloggers like this: