Poetry By
James Valvis
Published on: 11/1/2013
The Last Thing Oedipus Sees
His thoughts veer to his mother turned wife, dead by her own frail hand, hand that held him as babe and man, and his children turned grandchildren, the shame they must now endure. Holding his knife, he turns to the heavens. He wants to drink one last cup of stars, carry drops of light into the long darkness like tiny jugs of water into an endless desert, but the clouds have sanded the sky smooth except one pocket where the moon pokes through. He holds the blade over his face, a salute to fate. He imagines even the moon is like an eye dangling from its socket. The last thing he sees is exploding water and blood. His eye, rolling down his cheek, is as large a tear as anyone can know.
Published on: 10/30/2013
The Abominable Snowman
Finding one is not as easy as you might think, given his size and his ravenous appetite. You will not find him in the blue swells of arctic ice, in the fountain of whale spit, on a drifting floe, nor in the bark of mossy trees, an abandoned temple, or even in the missing vowel between the f and j in fjords. One hears rumors he rides the backs of polar bears, is attracted to rainbows, can be dazzled by female beauty, though it's best not to put too much faith in hearsay. Follow Polaris, fly to China, hang in the Hoh Rainforest. Call him Yeti, Big Foot, Sasquatch, or Ape Man. Doesn't matter. Your interest in him is not reciprocated. Perhaps this is the most abominable thing about him: his indifference. To you, to me, to all of humanity. He'd rather be let alone. He prefers it even to killing you.
Published on: 10/28/2013
Thrown from a Car, He Reflects on His Unborn Children
Today the clouds are kites without strings. I've witnessed this morning, looking up the heavens blink in and blink out. My death has nothing to do with flying. I've witnessed this morning, looking up, wondering if my next breath will come. My death has nothing to do with flying. Being thrown from a car is not flight. Wondering if my next breath will come, I see all the children I will never sire. Being thrown from a car is not flight, they say with their nothing, nowhere voices. I see all the children I will never sire, the whole long line of lost lineage. They say with their nothing, nowhere voices, the cup of blood in my mouth: that is their cup. The whole long line of lost lineage lose their root, their knuckle in the mud, the cup of blood in my mouth that is their cup. My death tethers me forever to this moment. The heavens blink in and blink out, lose their root, their knuckle in the mud: death tethers me forever to this moment. Today the clouds are kites without strings.
Published on: 10/25/2013
Your Halo
How easily your halo can slip onto your head, become a hat brim with no hat, then slide still more over the eyes, a blindfold of light, over the nose to the mouth, where it acts as a gag, then across the chin, a stubble of setting sun, until settling around the neck where it is now your noose.
Published on: 4/4/2012
Jack and the Beanstalk Critique
Before the wife takes a lover, the friend betrays, and deceit engenders deceit, grows so common one wonders how the world could go on without it, the Jack story makes sense, while later, perhaps stalking in dusk, staring up at the stem-less sky, one finds it impossible to believe a boy innocent enough to sell his cow for a handful of alleged magic beans is also smart enough to con a giant out of his most prized possessions.
Published on: 4/4/2012
Eddie and Me
Every Saturday morning while everyone slept in Eddie from five houses down lumbered across the street dragging soap and sponges towels, brushes, and wax and began the slow process of polishing his car to that showroom shine I would be up early trying to score a wiffleball game before the big kids woke and designated me catcher which stunk because catcher didn't get to hit or pitch and had to chase the ball after every foul or error so on Princeton Avenue every Saturday morning stood me and Eddie, with him giving me the stink-eye because sometimes during the games the wiffleball would hit that car he loved more than his wife his country or Jesus Christ but I felt that way about baseball and though he was rich and I poor he industrious and I lazy he strong and I weak I thought we had this in common Saturday mornings together Eddie polishing his new car and me pitching to no one then running down the ball neither ever saying a word about how pitifully we thought the other guy wasted his time
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