García - The chair : prose poems

THE CHAIR

Copyright 2014 by Richard Garcia

All rights reserved

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition

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Publications by BOA Editions, Ltd.a not-for-profit corporation under section 501 (c) (3) of the United States Internal Revenue Codeare made possible with funds from a variety of sources, including public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency; the Literature Program of the National Endowment for the Arts; the County of Monroe, NY; the Lannan Foundation for support of the Lannan Translations Selection Series; the Mary S. Mulligan Charitable Trust; the Rochester Area Community Foundation; the Arts & Cultural Council for Greater Rochester; the Steeple-Jack Fund; the Ames-Amzalak Memorial Trust in memory of Henry Ames, Semon Amzalak and Dan Amzalak; and contributions from many individuals nationwide. See Colophon on for special individual acknowledgments.

Cover Design: Sandy Knight

Interior Design and Composition: Richard Foerster

Manufacturing: McNaughton & Gunn

BOA Logo: Mirko

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Garcia, Richard, 1941

[Poems. Selections]

The chair : prose poems / by Richard Garcia. First edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-1-938160-44-8 (paperback) ISBN 978-1-938160-45-5 (ebook)

I. Title.

PS3557.A71122A6 2014

811'.54dc23

2014004779

BOA Editions, Ltd.

250 North Goodman Street, Suite 306

Rochester, NY 14607

www.boaeditions.org

A. Poulin, Jr., Founder (19381996)

MATCHBOOK

My footsteps are loud, as if I were in a large room. I find a book of matches in my pocket and light one. I almost burn my fingers as the light goes out, leaving a trace of sulfur in the air. I try another and hold it high. Ropes. Curtains. I kneel, holding the match low. Wooden floor. I walk ahead slowly, sliding my feet, and almost step off into space. I hear a gasp. Someone chuckles. Apparently Im being watched. I count the matches. I dont want to waste any. Maybe I can find a candle. A flashlight. A light switch. I prepare myself to light the next match. Im getting better at this.

A PORTRAIT OF MY CHILDHOOD PAINTED BY GOYA

In the kitchen an infant is standing in a corner as if he were shackled upright. He hears his mother calling softly, Camnate, niito. Older now, he is trying to count to five. A hooded inquisitor from the Church stands over him. The boy cannot seem to get past five. The Inquisitor slaps his belt against a table: Count! The boy counts, rapidly from one to ten in English, then rapidly from ten to one in Spanish. The shadow of a wolf disappears into the wall. A slow pan of the kitchen: colander, knives, a cleaver. Voiceover: Bombs away! Geronimo! Ai Cisco! Ai Pancho! Hi-ho Silver, away! The boy opens his eyes many years later but he is still in the kitchen. His father is wrestling with a huge bird. Is it a turkey, a chicken? His father is behind the bird holding its wings out, laughing. The boy closes his eyes. Through the smoky sky, an old man clings to the back of an enormous bird.

DAY AT THE BEACH, 1958

You are on your knees in the sand, praying to Cupid. Diane is making a castle complete with stairwell. Your secret thoughts are longing for Clementine. And Lucy, remember her? Youre in a circular haze. Thats what you get for staring at the whirligig called Spike the Junkyard Dog. Maybe you could grab that propeller for your beanie. But lucky for you, your aviator goggles look great pushed up on your forehead. You want to tell Lucy about your collection of bongos, but she is busy smiling into her compact mirror, just for you. What a waste. What a waist Diane hasand what spindles for legs, that Clementine, but her breasts are the threshold to dreams. That gordito in your bathing suit makes you walk as if you were crippled when you wander off with her toward the Cave of Making Out. The cave where time chills your feet. She, demure beside you, sitting like a lady, offers tea. The teapot, tethered to balloons, floats into the sky. A teapot tethered to balloons floating into the sky. Almost famous. Like Frankie Avalon. That was the day Cupid missed but Anteros smiled. Kissing Clementine goodbye, you even said adios to her parents. Rode off in the back seat sitting between Lucy and Diane. Lucy asleep with her cheek against your shoulder; Diane asleep with head in your lap.

THE UNSTUCKS AT THE GATES OF THE DESERT FOLLY GARDEN

My branch of the family is unstuck-together. On the Mexican vaudeville circuit they were known as Los DesemepegadosThe Unstucks. Back in those days there were many offshoots of the family, and they all hated each other. The Barcelona Unstucks hated the Paris Unstucks, all because of a one hundred-dollar bet that a cow would go up and down stairs. The Cyprus Unstucks hated the Jerusalem Unstucks, all because of a key that was hidden and lost. The Las Vegas Unstucks hated the Tijuana Unstucks; that feud was over who had the right to claim the invention of the Caesar salad. There were circus Unstucks, aerialists, who were known as The Flying Unstucks. They were famous for not catching each other. Every ten years the Unstucks come together, in a manner of speaking, at the Unstucks reunion.

Since the late eighteenth century, the reunion has been held at the Gates of the Desert Folly Garden. There is even a famous photo of the reunion you can get on the Web for a hundred dollars. It is mislabeled Andr Breton and the Surrealists at the Gates of the Desert Folly Garden. Perhaps one of the Unstucks lied about the identity of their party to the photographer.

The Unstucks meet and register for the reunion under false names, at the statue of the giant dangling a large naked woman by the ankles. To avoid conflicts they all don masks and wear the same face the whole time. It is a bald, eyebrow-less idiot face with a blank expression. During the reunion they even sleep with the bald, eyebrow-less, idiot face with a blank expression mask on. If two Unstucks happen to become amorous, say, in the pyramid-shaped icehouse, they leave the masks on. They even make love with the masks on; that way, no Unstuck is angry or jealous during the reunion, and they can go their separate ways without knowing from which branch of the family either one hailed.

Once, a couple of strangers, perhaps an English couple, wore bald, eyebrow-less idiot face with the blank expression masks and crashed the reunion. Apparently they liked it so much that they came back every ten years for the rest of their lives. In fact, it is believed that every ten years, two of their descendants crash the reunion wearing bald, eyebrow-less idiot face with the blank expression masks. But no one knows this for sure.

THE HISTORY OF UMBRELLAS

Like the yo-yo and the boomerang, the first umbrellas were created as weapons. Naked warriors, their bodies painted with streaks of blood, would dance, holding their umbrellas in threatening positions. They would point them at the sky, flapping them open and closed, and stab the air with their umbrellas; however, they soon learned they could trip on their umbrellas during the confusion of battle. Or, as they charged the enemy, they would waste time trying to get their umbrellas open. Worse, as they approached the enemy holding their umbrellas like parasols, like tightrope walkers or ballerinas, the enemy would laugh at them. It was to be centuries before anyone thought of using umbrellas in the rain. Even today, umbrellas lie abandoned at airports, train stations, waiting rooms, hallways, and porticos.