Open Mic
Intrigued by the film noir flyer
sealed into the corner streetlamp.
Seduced by the scent
of sublime stogies
and murmuring macchiato.
The grizzly, lazy-eyed
sidewalk strummer
fingering linear chords
like a lost virtuoso
looked up to greet me,
as I eased inside past
the local university boys
(sporting the same haircut
displaying different shades of plaid)
to a worn, orange, recliner.
Narrow girls
with lifeless hair
crossed tapered denim legs
on wicker chairs
waiting for boyfriends
to belt out blasé songs
from their indie bands
with commercial names.
I sat, glad snapping is passé.
Sentiments stemming from my
Latino lineage—
Dad’s machismo explained:
his calloused thumbs,
my propensity for double entendres,
and Mom’s friend who visited
late-night while he was away.
Though I’m a jr.,
I didn’t inherit his ways.
I just wanted to sign the sheet.
Read my meager poems,
hoping one of the narrow girls
would notice and say,
“Damn. That was good…”
© 2010 Daniel Romo
*an earlier version appears in Verdad Magazine.
Containment
She says the sky is on fire. The blue actually cool hue of the
quintessential flame, and clouds: spectators to record the
calamity. There are no such things as planes. They are products
of chemtrails—governmental spaying and neutering. Airports:
kennels/accomplices. She says birds are a dying breed of
matchsticks, striking the fuse with the tips of their beaks.
Runaway balloons are the severed grasping hands of children,
inflated aspirations set ablaze ‘round campfire songs gone awry.
Kites, are kites. Mostly pointless. Reigned in when fear outweighs
risk. But fireflies are real. Embers of tossed cigarettes thrown
over cold shoulders. She says either way, we’ll all burn in hell.
© 2010 Daniel Romo
*an earlier version appears at Ditch Poetry.
Damn.That was good.