Poetry By
Charles Musser
Published on: 6/15/2010
Foreclosure/Eviction Check List
Tear out all plumbing fixtures and sell them. Paint house puce. Pour cement down chimney. Sacrifice a goat on the living room floor. Deny the holocaust on talk-radio -- use my broker's name. Write poor list-poem. Play Russian roulette again with the dog (use real bullet this time). Set free your flea farm. Stand like Caesar on far side of the Rubicon; gamble glory and mutter to dead poets in earshot of the neighbors how the monkeys, the monkeys are missing! Dig up the body behind garage -- outsource a proper burial for God's sake. Put on parka, head north, and pray like hell Canada doesn't know my name. Unless dog wins.
Published on: 2/22/2010
Gifts of the Converging Magi
On Christmas Eve, Phillipe Rodriguez tumbles out the Piñon General Store, burps tequila-sweetened eggnog onto his mohair vest, and considers three roads converging through dry, cool desert dust. Down one his wife, his daughter and his son, wait patiently. He leans away from home. His broken toe bemoans the fact he lost his job from the sardine factory and the Sangre de Christos whisper evil thoughts. The neon star above the intersecting paths cries "Love!" He tips his head to the side, thinks he hears a chorus of angels; in fact, it's only three engines roaring down upon him. Camellia De la Garza chugs down the first, her pickup jammed with bargain-basement Christmas trees, bucking and leaping with each rutted bound of broken springs. Down the second flies Billy Chavez, his cargo van stuffed with ornaments, gaudy gifts, wrapping paper and 10,000 feet of purple ribbon on a giant wooden wheel. Down the third rides Idaho's Jimmy Fitzgerald tucked snugly in the womb of his 18-wheeler, hell-bent on reaching Texas by midnight with 10 tons of the whitest powder known to man. And just before the infinite serendipity of the world presses its thumb down on the open switch, Phillipe grabs a hand-rolled, crosses himself, then flicks a match to hip and strikes. Camellia slows, imagining the fire in her husband's Alzheimer eyes when he sees 20 trees along their barren garden's edge, decorated and pointed up to God. Billy sees the rectory candles of Father Juarez, dancing with him to the orphanage.. And Jimmy? He hums along with Bing, coasts and starts to sing, "I'm dreaming of a white..." On this Christmas Eve, of course, all three pass each other by the shallowest of breaths, fade to dust and cloud. Eyes wide as Tortillas de Madre, Phillipe claps his hands, then dances a jig to his family and hearth on the drunken reel of the crescent-fiddle slung below the winking western star.
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