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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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