by Sydney Solis
POEM: came while writing you.
The cat works her claws into the $700 chair.
I'm mad, but I don't feel like getting up to swat her off
and preserve the $700 chair, pretty as it may be.
Friday, January 29, 2010
WORN AWAY
by Sydney Solis
As a child, Tracy played with three little dolls so much that their eyes were rubbed away.
Her three-year-old daughter finds them in the closet.
"Ooooooh, Mommy., that's Spooky. They don't have any eyes."
As a child, Tracy played with three little dolls so much that their eyes were rubbed away.
Her three-year-old daughter finds them in the closet.
"Ooooooh, Mommy., that's Spooky. They don't have any eyes."
PERFORMANCE ART
by Sydney Solis
True story in the newspaper. A woman tried to pay at the check-out in Target with a million dollar bill. She tried to pay for $2,000 worth of stuff with $2.62 on a gift card. The clerk wouldn't take it, so she handed him the million. Cops arrested her.
My sister, when she heard the story, insisted that maybe the woman was just misunderstood. Perhaps it was just performance art. Six other women came in, paid with million dollar bills, but went unnoticed.
Can you break a million?
It should go further, she said.
To be a glamour girl stick-up artist. Red lipstick, platinum blonde wig, black stiletto heels, red skirt buxom bounce. On bank video surveillance, she's crossing in front of the camera in Yuma, Chicago, Tampa, San Francisco, Buffalo, all at the same time. There's a Hollywood glamour girl robbing a bank at gunpoint. She's all over the country. Five different cameras juxtaposed on the newscast. Five blonde wigs, five skirts in motion diagonally in the lobby and across your screen. In the sight of millions across the country watching it over and over and over again. They've realize they've seen her before, but nobody knows who she is.
True story in the newspaper. A woman tried to pay at the check-out in Target with a million dollar bill. She tried to pay for $2,000 worth of stuff with $2.62 on a gift card. The clerk wouldn't take it, so she handed him the million. Cops arrested her.
My sister, when she heard the story, insisted that maybe the woman was just misunderstood. Perhaps it was just performance art. Six other women came in, paid with million dollar bills, but went unnoticed.
Can you break a million?
It should go further, she said.
To be a glamour girl stick-up artist. Red lipstick, platinum blonde wig, black stiletto heels, red skirt buxom bounce. On bank video surveillance, she's crossing in front of the camera in Yuma, Chicago, Tampa, San Francisco, Buffalo, all at the same time. There's a Hollywood glamour girl robbing a bank at gunpoint. She's all over the country. Five different cameras juxtaposed on the newscast. Five blonde wigs, five skirts in motion diagonally in the lobby and across your screen. In the sight of millions across the country watching it over and over and over again. They've realize they've seen her before, but nobody knows who she is.
DYING LIGHT
by Sydney Solis
I am dying
Make no mistake
The change in voice
The deepening of shadows
Speak, silent voice. For now I weep and attend to you
You stroke the top of the head
Wet, puffy eyes looking up
Attention
on the deep where whales moan around
navels and this is where the world beings
In the misty play of my picture to see ahead
Play, creator
Play me while I'm fresh
No longer
Goodbye temptress, you wild daughter you, you enjoyed and I am glad
Now bring your body back to me
So that we can paint the sky and water the canals
Roll in the hay and grow roses at night
Oh, poet of body
of pleasure, of pain
How do I part you?
The urgency of time
The wall begins to dim
The clock now lost, the game is near end
Until my final exhale.
I am dying
Make no mistake
The change in voice
The deepening of shadows
Speak, silent voice. For now I weep and attend to you
You stroke the top of the head
Wet, puffy eyes looking up
Attention
on the deep where whales moan around
navels and this is where the world beings
In the misty play of my picture to see ahead
Play, creator
Play me while I'm fresh
No longer
Goodbye temptress, you wild daughter you, you enjoyed and I am glad
Now bring your body back to me
So that we can paint the sky and water the canals
Roll in the hay and grow roses at night
Oh, poet of body
of pleasure, of pain
How do I part you?
The urgency of time
The wall begins to dim
The clock now lost, the game is near end
Until my final exhale.
YEARNING
by Sydney Solis
Yearning
Heavy stone my heart
Floating in darkness
Dreams unremembered
Haunting from below
Fragments, broken pictures
Movement without footsteps
Or voices
And still I wait
And still I wait.
Yearning
Heavy stone my heart
Floating in darkness
Dreams unremembered
Haunting from below
Fragments, broken pictures
Movement without footsteps
Or voices
And still I wait
And still I wait.
ADDICTS
by Sydney Solis
Addicts
they say
can't deal with their reality
Well, nothing
not even the old skull ashtray
can deter my bitter sorrow
and retreat to red Marlboro
Smoke to rock my lungs
Something to hold me
In the desperate desolation of my soul
Alone
Winter 2003
Addicts
they say
can't deal with their reality
Well, nothing
not even the old skull ashtray
can deter my bitter sorrow
and retreat to red Marlboro
Smoke to rock my lungs
Something to hold me
In the desperate desolation of my soul
Alone
Winter 2003
FIRE BONES
by Sydney Solis
I am nothing but bones and a fire on a stick inside my spine.
Will the fire burn?
The computer break down?
My brother told me when buying a stereo, the fewer moving parts, the less breakdowns
Will bones and a car collide?
Like a freight train
that I always hear.
Como el ferrocarril que siempre me oigo.
I am nothing but bones and a fire on a stick inside my spine.
Will the fire burn?
The computer break down?
My brother told me when buying a stereo, the fewer moving parts, the less breakdowns
Will bones and a car collide?
Like a freight train
that I always hear.
Como el ferrocarril que siempre me oigo.
SHROUDED LOVE
by Sydney Solis
You picked me
because I was the beautiful rose
gracious, red,
tender-skinned,
slender-stemmed
daintily clothed
by silken fragrant petals.
My petals were sealed then,
hiding me like the bulb in winter.
Alas, when I emerge,
only then will you find me.
When you woo me home and display me in your vase,
the concealing petals will fall like tears,
unmasking my deepest self you never saw amid the dozens of others I was competing with in the garden.
And when my bloom has failed
and can no longer be worn near your heart,
I will trust it was not I you loved,
but my blossoms made of earth.
1985
You picked me
because I was the beautiful rose
gracious, red,
tender-skinned,
slender-stemmed
daintily clothed
by silken fragrant petals.
My petals were sealed then,
hiding me like the bulb in winter.
Alas, when I emerge,
only then will you find me.
When you woo me home and display me in your vase,
the concealing petals will fall like tears,
unmasking my deepest self you never saw amid the dozens of others I was competing with in the garden.
And when my bloom has failed
and can no longer be worn near your heart,
I will trust it was not I you loved,
but my blossoms made of earth.
1985
THE PREVIOUS TENANT
Down below the snowy window, a homeless man sleeps atop the garbage bin.
The manager walked me down the dark hall, hacking- $210 a month, includes utilities.
As her keys jangle in the lock she says, "The last guy who lived here nearly burned the place down.
I came in here and he was face down on the couch, butt naked in high heels, dinner on the stove."
The hum of the city, outside, below.
the previous tenant left the shower curtain,
a collage of black-and-white movie stills,
Claudette Colbert, Greta Garbo, Clark Gable.
I liked it. It still smelled like plastic.
She said the carpets would be cleaned,
but after I moved in, still,
weeks later
they smelled wet of chemical cleaner and something else that was of a different atomic structure.
In the bathroom,
I open the 40s medicine cabinet thick with white paint.
The roaches scatter so fast out of the corner of my eyes when I flick on the light,
as if they were surprised and blushed at expecting someone else,
before they shyly dart back into the corners.
One cockroach carcass remained inside the medicine cabinet.
I left it there.
A sandy, red, dry roach.
I looked at it every day,
as I brush my teeth,
the same as I looked out the window and saw the homeless man
every day,
as I tried to get to know my previous tenant outside,
down below.
Spring 2004
READING AT TEPOTZLAN
Reading at Tepotzlán
by Sydney Solis
The tarot card reader was from Argentina.
Aged 40ish. Didn't speak much English.
A pack of Camel straights on the table
Aged 40ish. Didn't speak much English.
A pack of Camel straights on the table
next to a blue candle.
Streaks of grey like stray, single broom stalks
sprang from long black hair.
Beautiful face with a hard life,
she is the white calla lily painted
sprang from long black hair.
Beautiful face with a hard life,
she is the white calla lily painted
on the blue talavera pitcher,
pouring deepness down the throat,
breathing in burning sandalwood.
The center of the universe, her eyes,
everything watering down into black ink.
We sat at the table.
She sat to my right.
She drew The World card.
Este viaje, es como un sueño de tu vida.
Yes, she's right.
Coming to live in Mexico was everything to me.
Her finger tap, tap, tapped the card.
Veas esta tarjeta?
See this card?
Esta mujer,
Me, the nude Venus floating in the middle of a bough of green.
Eres tu. It's me.
Y este anillo alrededor de ella. This ring around her.
Es tu madre. It's your mother.
I think of my violent mother back home in Colorado.
Tienes que huir de la madre. You have to get out of the mother.
Este hombre. This man. She tapped the card’s left-hand corner
where a picture of man’s head floated
I think of Frank, who pursued me down here.
Es muy parecido a tu madre. He is a lot like your mother.
Tienes que irte, huir. You have to go, get out.
Es algo muy difícil de hacer. It's a very difficult thing to do.
Pero tienes que irte. But you have to get out.
I didn’t say anything else.
With a few minutes left of the reading I asked.
When will I be successful?
She just stared at me.
She just stared at me.
You will be successful when you get a paintbrush, can hold it with your vagina and you can paint your own name with it.
That's what she said.
Copyright 2015 All Rights Reserved
FROM HER CHAIR
by Sydney Solis
Bent fingers
worn toes
like claws
a steel pin to hold them straight
false teeth, barking, coughing, spitting
in your chair
a million town magazines lay at your feet
slip and break a hip
your death would mean his freedom
and yours from the black filth beneath the refrigerator
a 21-year-old house
never has seen a sponge
at its feet
the black that is in your bones
in your feet
in your words
that hit
like
nicotine
on brain cells
that cut oxygen
and life
from the living
and me
1985
Bent fingers
worn toes
like claws
a steel pin to hold them straight
false teeth, barking, coughing, spitting
in your chair
a million town magazines lay at your feet
slip and break a hip
your death would mean his freedom
and yours from the black filth beneath the refrigerator
a 21-year-old house
never has seen a sponge
at its feet
the black that is in your bones
in your feet
in your words
that hit
like
nicotine
on brain cells
that cut oxygen
and life
from the living
and me
1985
THE WANTING
by Sydney Solis
No man's arm around his girl at the cinema
only backward caps, faded denim and mastication
to shotgun blasts, slaps and sirens
no silent prayer or hymns to childhood
reflection on apple pie, but rather top dreams of lovers behind TV doors
un-touching, graceless and like snow in the back seat
unbelievably quiet, white and fluttering
a tear, like those in a dog's eye
wet with no purpose but adoration for
empty homes made from mail order catalogs
home improvements, organized gardens and coffee cups
wait for the day he will come home and touch
his girl in the nylon nightgown,
who holds flower pots with oven mitts
and sweeps a broom over scattered lasagna recipes
clipped from Wednesday's food section
No man's arm around his girl at the cinema
only backward caps, faded denim and mastication
to shotgun blasts, slaps and sirens
no silent prayer or hymns to childhood
reflection on apple pie, but rather top dreams of lovers behind TV doors
un-touching, graceless and like snow in the back seat
unbelievably quiet, white and fluttering
a tear, like those in a dog's eye
wet with no purpose but adoration for
empty homes made from mail order catalogs
home improvements, organized gardens and coffee cups
wait for the day he will come home and touch
his girl in the nylon nightgown,
who holds flower pots with oven mitts
and sweeps a broom over scattered lasagna recipes
clipped from Wednesday's food section
BLUE CANDLE
by Sydney Solis
The blue candle reminds me
to remember the airy dream of today
and in my body's slumber rewrite it as a poem
a gift to the earth goddess and the sky god
mother and father
myself
my tears
howling for the sun and the moon
to taste starducst, remember explosions and say,
I was there
I was there
The blue candle reminds me
to remember the airy dream of today
and in my body's slumber rewrite it as a poem
a gift to the earth goddess and the sky god
mother and father
myself
my tears
howling for the sun and the moon
to taste starducst, remember explosions and say,
I was there
I was there
HEAVEN AND EARTH
by Sydney Solis
We are planets aligned
scattering heavenly typed scripts
rushed to us by angels
down
down to skin and bones
motion on asphalt
grieving, weeping, wondering
waiting for night,
for dawn
for death
We are planets aligned
scattering heavenly typed scripts
rushed to us by angels
down
down to skin and bones
motion on asphalt
grieving, weeping, wondering
waiting for night,
for dawn
for death
AUTUMN WIND
The wind hurries along fallen leaves
calling home their bodies, dry curled and tired,
scuttling them to the corners of tree roots and pockets of earth
to dissolve back to the deep
heart of nature
sleep in darkness
and dream of spring buds and rain.
November 2003
calling home their bodies, dry curled and tired,
scuttling them to the corners of tree roots and pockets of earth
to dissolve back to the deep
heart of nature
sleep in darkness
and dream of spring buds and rain.
November 2003
REBORN
They say Native Americans cut their hair when they are in mourning
I didn't know that when I did it.
I just knew it needed to be done
that it would be a lost year or more
and when spring comes and everything has grown back, I will be me again
Reborn
I just didn't know it would take so long
for my body to catch up with my heart
or for my body to slow down for the tears
I didn't know that when I did it.
I just knew it needed to be done
that it would be a lost year or more
and when spring comes and everything has grown back, I will be me again
Reborn
I just didn't know it would take so long
for my body to catch up with my heart
or for my body to slow down for the tears
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