A poem created from New York's news, from the persona of a girl, lost but then.

The Daughter's Return

Behind the Purple People Eater
Down on the Lower East Side
         From the Garden, I smoked
         And tried to calm myself.

A high school female so mature
For my age, I had used a false I.D.
         And entered the rock club
         With several gal friends.

I looked at chipped nail polish
on my thumb and flicked ashes
         Down to the icy pavement,
         Disappearing into

The grimy snow shoved
Against the brick building by some
        Janitor. Ice glistened from a blue
        Light above the club's alley door.

I clenched up--another painful after
Contraction, and hugged my loose skirt,
        Aching and still disoriented
        From earlier when I had washed
Off the blood in the small porcelain
Sink in the empty lady's room,
        After disposing of my underwear
        And my wet jacket, I had sat on

Leaning against the beige stall
Shoving and shoving.
        But now I flicked the butt
        In the snow and pushed past
The squat cook in the tiny kitchenette
And through the girls' door again,
        Leaned into the mirror on the wall
        And applied heavy shadow

Around my wandering eyes,
Straightened my skimpy skirt,
       Stared in the mirror for more
       Moments, then undid another

Button on my navy blue blouse.
I sprayed a dash of Estee Lauder
      On my sweated body and shoved
      Through the door but thought of--
Baby of mine, now hidden,
Stashed in the Giants' jacket
      Shoved far down in back
      In the trash dumpster.

I blinked, clinched my fingers,
But licked my lips and then sauntered
      Back into the darkened club
      Where gyrating flesh

Channeled the crashing drums,
And I scanned the sensed mesh
      Of moving flashed skin
      Prodding for a night man.

That's when I slumped down
Collapsing to the floor
      Only to wake later in
      The Hospice of the Virgin.



Body Parts

A Spanish soldier take cavalry communion
At his Carlist village, the bread and the wine,
After horse-descending down from the gashed mountains
With the small red Sacred Heart stitched to his
Uniformed chest: "Stop, bullet, the heart
Of Jesus is here" his sacred emblem of universal love;
And his saddlebags bounce with large heads of loyalists
Cut to size down from the skulled heights of Calvary;
No more red communists to forgive,
In this most religious of encounters--
This is my Body, this is my Heart,
"So it goes..."²


*For them the war was above all a religious crusade. Many Nationalists, but
especially Carlists, wore badges of the Sacred Heart of Jesus stitched
on their uniforms over their hearts as a symbolical protection against enemy
fire. These were called détentes because the soldiers said this
prayer: "Stop, bullet, the heart of Jesus is here."
The Spanish Civil War by Frances Lannon

²Vonnegut's infamous satiric phrase from Slaughter House-5



About the author:
Daniel Wilcox earned his degree in Creative Writing from Cal State University, Long Beach. He is a former activist, teacher, and wanderer from Montana to the Middle East, leaving a vapor trail of poetic debris. His writing has appeared in various journals including Erbacce, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Cerebral Catalyst, The November 3rd Club and Right Hand Pointing. A short story based on his time in the Middle East was published in the September 2007 issue of The Danforth Review. Currently, Daniel is finishing a novel and a poetry collection. He lives on the central coast of California with his mysterious wife and youngest son.

Writer's Website: http://seaquaker.com/poetry

© 2009 Word Riot