viernes, 14 de abril de 2017

JUSTIN HYDE [20.085]


JUSTIN HYDE

Justin Hyde (Iowa, Estados Unidos, 1978)
Justin Hyde lives in Iowa where he works as a correctional officer. He’s had work published in a wide spectrum of magazines ranging from The Iowa Review and the New York Quarterly to various on-line publications.  More of his work can be found here: http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/justinhyde.



Llamada a la ex esposa a las 10:27 de la noche

¿qué era eso
que me diste
aquel verano
cuando se me inflamó
la parte posterior de las rodillas?...

 cortisona,
 dice ella.

 ah, cortisona,
 gracias.

 ¿eso es todo
 lo que necesitas?

 ¿te acuerdas de la primera vez
 que recorrimos las sendas
 del pájaro carpintero?

 no,
 justin.

 de acuerdo.
 perdona.

 ve a acostarte.

 de acuerdo.

 buenas noches.

 buenas noches.




En un banco, en el parque infantil que hay al final de la calle

nuestras vidas
no son más
que abrelatas.

 el amor...
 y todas sus
 maquinaciones gratuitas
 meras ilusiones
 para propagar más abrelatas.

 esta especie de nihilismo
 ha obstruido tu mente
 desde que a la edad de nueve años

 en puntas de pies

 la mejilla de tu abuelo
 era una piedra
 dentro de su ataúd.

 papi,
 se me ha desatado el cordón del zapato
 dice tu
 hijo de tres años
 caminando torpemente hacia ti.

 su mejilla será
 una piedra
 también.

 pero
 por ahora

 te necesita.

An elephant hole, Interior Noise Press, Austin, Texas. 2014
Versiones de Jonio González



A CALL TO THE EX WIFE AT 10:27 pm 

 what was the stuff
 you got me
 that winter when
 the backs of my knees
 dried out? 

 cortisone,
 she says. 

 ah cortisone
 thank you. 

 that all
 you needed? 

 remember the first time
 we went walking
 at the woodpecker trails? 

 don’t
 justin. 

 ok
 i’m sorry. 

 go to bed. 

 ok. 

 goodnight. 

 goodnight. 




ON A BENCH AT THE PLAYGROUND DOWN THE STREET

 our lives
 are nothing but
 can openers. 
 love
 and all its
 gratuitous machinations
 simply illusions
 to propagate more can openers. 
 this kind of nihilism
 has clogged your mind
 since the age of nine 
 standing on your toes 
 your grandfather’s cheek
 a stone
 inside his casket. 
 daddy
 my shoe is untied,
 says your
 three year old son
 plodding up to you. 
 his cheek will
 be a stone
 too. 
 but
 for now 
 he needs you.



i haven’t been with his wife in three months

as i come out of the showers
towel around my waist
at the ymca

he’s standing
at a locker
across from me

stripping off cycling gear
after a spin class

i googled him
early on in the affair

found a little clip
of a presentation
for his
architectural firm

in person

he’s rickety

solid twenty years
older than me

something’s wrong
with his left leg

slightly atrophied
curved in
like a wish-bone

i used to visualize him
knocking at my door
with a gun

i’m not scared anymore

or remorseful

this strange new secretion
thick
across the middle of my gut

pity

i decide

pity for all three of us

ache and clueless
under the heel
of the boot.


i don’t tell you everything

sure

i teach you
all the good swear words

where and when
to use them

the raw schematics
of sex

plurality and dogma
of religion

i indulge
every pulse
of your curiosity
with all the unvarnished clarity
i can muster

your mother says
i give you
too much information

but i don’t
tell you
everything

like the guy
who broke into our car last week

the needles and vomit
he left
in the back seat

how i cheated
on your mother
more times
than i can remember

that i’m thinking
of breaking up
with this new woman
whose kids
are starting to feel
like your brothers

or the day
eight years ago
when your mother told me
you were coming

we were here
at noah’s
in this exact booth

i put my hands
flat on the table
like this

leaned forward

abortion
i told her

no hesitation

not one
single
inch.



the female chaplain

walked in
while i was meditating
in the north group room.

what do you
meditate on?
she asked
while setting up
for that night’s
bible study.

nothing really
just the sensation of air
in and out of the diaphragm
clears the shrapnel
and keeps my noodle
supple.

how will you give
an accounting of your sins
on judgment day?
she asked
out of left field

went on to tell me

all men fall short
only through christ’s love
can one be saved

have you read
the bible
justin?

do you
go to church?

she’s a nice old lady
rich old lady
used to own a jewelry store

now she slums twice a week
at the halfway house
serving cookies
and fishing for souls

she’d never hit me
with the proselytizing hammer before

so i calmly accounted
for my agnosticism
panpsychism

explained
i found the
shared moments of silence
in the unitarian church
to be a powerful
spiritual experience.

unitarian?
that’s just
a free for all,
she laughed
tilting her head
towards the ceiling.

can we be frank?
i asked
still sitting
in full lotus
backs of my hands
on my knees.

of course
we’re all
one flock,
she said
unfolding her hands
towards me.

i’d fuck
your god in the ass
before i’d ever
hold his hand,
i flashed her
a fat buddha smile

and closed
my eyes.



boots and a simple pair of jeans

z z z

she walks past
the coffee shop window

just meat
on bone

vulture rations
on layaway

but z z z

all the bananas
fall out of your tree

you’d kill for her

given the right
(or is it wrong)
circumstances

oeuvres
cemeteries
whole prisons full of men
who have

z z z

go ahead and sigh
as she pivots
and disappears
around the corner

now

slowly pick up
your bananas

taste the blood

on the back
of your teeth.



after your best friend’s wedding

we stood naked
in front of the hotel mirror

arms
behind each other’s backs

marveling
at our youth

electric

to start our own family

fourteen years later

a divorce decree
and a six year old boy

are all that
bind us.

you think
i’ve moved on

unscathed

flush with luck
and impunity

while you still struggle
rinsing your heart out
against the rocks

i know this
because i’m reading your diary

right now

wandering through this house

that used to be ours.



this morning at the dahl’s cafe on ingersoll

long black hair
native american features
motorcycle helmet in her hand
she sits at a table
kitty corner from me.
i make eye-contact
until she returns the eye contact
then i immediately stare down at the floor.
thirty-six years old
i still have no idea
how to flirt with a woman. pathetic
in a pathological sense.
i take my jacket off
and walk past her to get more coffee
trying to show off these quasi muscles
i’ve cultivated
to compensate and proxy
for my ingrown heart.
of course none of this
cajoles her.
she finishes her breakfast
(completely oblivious to this impotent soliloquy for sure)
grabs her helmet
out the door
to the parking lot. i
watch her
side glance out the window
like a starving toothless
wolf.



i missed you last night richard fiester

volunteer firefighter, sole proprietor of fiester repair, town drunk,
grandpa.
i was at work last night, minding my own accord,
then there was a tightness in my chest,
got tighter,
thought i was having a heart attack or a stroke.
then visions of my childhood flooded me
like a blown dam.
i was missing you last night,
actually missing you, for the first time since you passed
thirteen years ago.
i’ve been seeing a psychologist, and i won’t lie,
he’s got my heart cracked open like an egg.
would you have cottoned to any of this? i’m sure you would.
grandma is still around and kicking,
she’s dating a ninety year old world war two vet.
the older she gets the more
her and mom’s eyes look alike. don’t get me started there.
i have an eight year son. a good boy.
tonight
we are going out to saylorville
to try for a stringer of crappie. i’ve got your old worm-box,
and some of those wooden bobbers from canada.
i’m going to teach him the same fishing knot
you taught me.




she leans in at the control desk

tools sell better than drugs and sex here
that’s why she stole the work-truck out of the quick-trip parking lot
the money?
just to live you know justin
just to get by
god
she has a wonderful laugh
right through the myelin
and dumb noise
i see my psych doctor tomorrow justin
no need to worry about me
life’s too short for bullshit
that laugh again
she taps the control desk lightly
with her fingertips
and goes out
to bum a smoke.




at my son’s concert

on a little wooden chair
next to my ex-wife
in the auditorium.

we don’t talk much
outside of co-parenting.

but i know
she recently found out
the first man
she’s had feelings for
since we split

is a down-low alcoholic

back at her place
trying to white-knuckle
the shakes.

where are you going?
you’re going to miss the start,
she jumps down my throat
a hundred decibels.

relax
i’m just taking a leak
i’ll find you a xanax while i’m out there
you need it.

she smiles

but when i come back
she’s dabbing tears from her cheek
with a purple infinity scarf.

apparently
i haven’t lost
my special talent

thumping women
square on the heart

with a perfect
turn of phrase.

i’m sorry,
i whisper in her ear.

the lights go down.

the curtain comes up.

i hold
her hand.



unknown

there is no ledge
see
she tries hopping over the guard-rail
on the top floor
of the parking ramp
i grab her waist
thin as a greyhound
the universe meets you
where you’re at
that’s the difference
between me and you
she dives under the guard-rail
i clamp my hand
around her forearm
slippery with sweat
and street
we slide the length of mississippi
locking
at her wrist.





the moneyed man

sat at our table

sat
does not do it justice

he was erect
and relaxed
at the same time

in total control
without saying a single word

everyone
even my girlfriend
was flirting with him

they couldn’t help it

his hands were the size of lobsters
he moved them just so
and smiled

everything turned to egg-yolk

i can’t say anything bad about the guy
he wasn’t conceited
or dismissive

he was just taller than me
richer than me

handsomer than me

charming

subdued

canadian accent!

cocksucker
had no flaws

all i could do
was idle roughly
like a jalopy
in his wake.






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