An evening with you was a crash landing
in a storm. Your head onto my knees, going
down into the jungle, the ocean,
cliffs, a distracted shepherd looking
at the ground, and his flock
of fat sheep watching the spiral
before the doom.
Your words, Russian novels
Your skin, Mexican surreal poetry
Your eyes, all Sex Pistols and Black Flag
I have never depended
on happy endings or heroes riding
off into clear sunsets and evenings
but watching you in cut off jeans
into a glass with a Scooby-Doo image
just made me forget the nature
of responsibility, class time,
work schedule, and washing the sheets.
Making a get-a-way was not
between my fingertips or
on the list of needs tacked
to the back door
One summer you left
the day just creaking and groaning
like always like usually like the LP
of boredom and sequence
I imagined looking for you
wearing a silver bullet pendant
with pockets full of garlic
and extra wool socks I could use
for bandages or to stoke a fire.
How might you celebrate
the end of the world?
Swaying with a feral cat
crowd of people,
in rock concert t-shirts, liquored up,
near a huge deep pool, daring each other
to swim with pockets full
of stones and large metal washers?
stale chips and bad radio pop
music that made you mad at yourself
for knowing the words.
And through the atmosphere,
sounds of exploding dog packs,
their black and brown paws speeding
up the avalanche of suburbia.
And what if this group evolves into smoke, or
shadows in rain and forever becomes no time at all.
Maybe the music ends,
you and a few others flood into
the dark humid night. The stars
icing the sky, a voice from the future of plans
The foolish nature of faith is really
the marching on of seasons decaying out of order.
This might be how it all
finishes. The musician alone
in the corner trying to
fix his red horn. A new north
that tricks compasses
or a horizon that unholsters
a violent edge like fire in dry grass.
Christopher Rubio-Goldsmith was born in Merida, Yucatan, Mexico, grew up in Tucson Arizona, and taught English at Tucson High Magnet School for 27 years. Since he grew up near the border and in a biracial, bilingual home and taught in a big urban high school where more than 70 percent of the students where American-Mexican, much of the poetry he writes explores these experiences. He holds a degree in creative writing from the University of Arizona. His writings have appeared in 580 Split, The Laurel Review, Fourteen Hills, the anthology, America, We Call Your Name and others.