Sean Patrick Hill
Dr. Morgan Manzanilla,
that old rusty face drinker, the moped man:
whether discussing delectable billiards or quantum physics,
he’s still just as interesting and annoying,
eyeing the working girls with cups bottles glasses
of warm beer balanced on a barroom banister,
dressed in black and shimmy gold.
Five cups of coffee is worth a tip, he says,
in Manos diner by the high school,
where business is slow and the waitresses slower;
but the bulletin board has a clown for hire
named Jack – who does balloons.
He speaks to the old and toothless
about yin and yang and such,
and laughs with men who live in their cars
about women playing darts in the corner.
The art on the wall has been torn, he notices,
relating this to no one but himself.
Drunk, he is vampire screaming gojojoba, gojojoba
god is a crutch, god is a crutch.
This be the man of blue Curacao
with pawns in palms under the table;
all of them he plays
as worlds turn under.
The room was filled with singing ghosts
hosting stripes on their backs;
his heart cried out to uncaring stars
and half-hidden moons, crying
something’s got to give someday,
nursing his lions brew and pretzels;
no nature Buddha to save him,
only old wicans telling him to eat more
vegetables, and all he could think was
I hope I laugh when I die,
or at least to laugh as I cry.
Far and away he hears
the geese in the sky.
Naked Laundry
