Not all of them are murderers. Rapists. Thieves. Those are the takers. The ones who, as children, probably picked everything up off the ground. Their slightly ungentle hands, eager and mud-caked from digging, securing all their findings deep into pockets. Bottle caps, a coin of two, small lizards, eventually working their way up to people though that would happen much later. Others need respite. The drug users. The givers who can't give away all blood carries. They think everything is a bomb or wish it was, a benefactor of instant change, ready to go off, loud and forever like it is inside the heart. When you feel too much, peace is to live sedated. We punish those who stop feeling. I should've been in jail years ago; for the way I turned, a wind vane changing direction, away from her voice. Her gunfire pleas shelling my back while I strolled on passed the pawnshop, then the city's only jazz club. That was Corpus Christi, TX. Years before snow turned all the Virginia pines to silver in my window. The cold, unbiased are of the moon forcing glitter into their evening gowns as it must've long before our ships and planes were made of wood. It's just easier to get around now. Leaving grad school and showing up back home in mid semester, killing the best of my mother's desires, took almost no effort at all. How others define the world is a song you've never heard, and they make it up as they go along, like Cole Porter high on Chicago, or children playing a game they can't name. I've got an idea for one: everyone go outside and find something, rename it, emphasize your favorite way to use it, then show someone else. I'll go first. You can drive this all the way to the ocean, light your cigarettes with it, listen to music, and make love for long hours in the back seat while the sun watches you smile away your sins. I call it a Cell Door. Your turn.
ROB TALBERT was born and raised in San Antonio, Texas. His work has appeared in Ninth Letter, Sow's Ear Review, Southern Poetry Review, and on his mother's fridge.
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|Title Annotation:||two poems|
|Publication:||The American Poetry Review|
|Date:||Mar 1, 2009|
|Previous Article:||Facts and Values.|
|Next Article:||Deviation Insures Failure.|