I sleep next to a vacuum tube that
Runs all night to catch the dust,
But it doesn’t help much.
I cough up mud in the morning.
My face is like an unused dresser:
Slide your finger across my cheek,
Then wipe the grime on your old shirt.
There are sandstorms in my living room
That cracked windows can’t hold back.
The milk in my bowl is brown or red
Depending on the deposits in the dirt.
The poor rats are always choking.
Why don’t we just all move to
Somewhere nice up north?
No need.
We’ll get used to it just like Grandpa and Daddy did.
I’ll swallow down that brown and anticipate
The grinding of that grit between my teeth.
Won’t bother wiping my shoes and jacket
Before I leave the house.
My high school friend Joey decided to smuggle
a pound of weed out of Mexico while
borrowing my mother’s car—
the one that was going to be mine.
Said he was running to the Dollar General
for a second to pick up some eggs, and two nights
later, he called my mother and asked “Ms. Rodriguez,
could you talk to this policeman?”
With that, I lost a friend and hunter green ’89
Ford Taurus. Another year of walking to school.
Fuck him. I sure as hell would have bashed his head
in, but luckily, the Mexican police did that for me.
After that, I decided I don’t like people.
Thank the Lord for Microsoft, Dell, and AT&T.
Technology means less bastards to look at.
I pay my bills with online banking.
I buy my groceries from Amazon.com.
If I need a woman, there’s millions to choose from,
and they leave as soon as I’m done.
Don’t need to worry about yapping kids
at the Laundromat. Have my own washer and dryer.
And Church? Got my Bible right here, don’t I?
Singing pisses me off anyways.
I couldn’t have stayed at home if that drunk
UPS driver hadn’t run over my leg.
Want to see my stump again? Ah, well.
Here’s your dollar for bringing me the mail.
Now get the hell out.
At eleven, too young
To bribe the corner store
Owners to let us buy
Cigarettes, we squeezed
Tobacco
Out of dirty butts off the
Ground and smoked
In permanent marker
Pipes.
At twelve, when
Sex Education
Gave us knowledge
Of incurable disease,
Fear of purple blisters
On our lips led us
To sticker patches
In backyards and
Country pastures.
We filled our black
And yellow hayburners
With thorny goat heads
That only the mouth
Of Earth had touched.
At thirteen, we all grew
Moustaches and the
Clerks never asked
Questions as they
Sold us white packs.
But with no jobs
and slim allowances,
We emptied the patches
Wherever we journeyed.
My father was a skyscraper
In Lubbock, Texas.
He couldn’t handle being tall,
So he would constantly drink
Gasoline and threaten to set himself
On fire. Once, after polishing
A tank of Super Unleaded,
That threat became reality.
Unfortunately for him, He had an excellent
Sprinkler system, and he survived with
Minimal injuries. He was naturally imploded
At the age of 95.
My mother was a twenty-first
floor window in my building father.
How I came to be, I don’t know.
I never ask nasty questions.
I jumped out of her upon being born,
And was subsequently raised
By the safety net that rescued me.
My childhood was not unhappy.
It would always try to beat me,
But it’s okay. The thing had no hands.
When I was nineteen, I decided to leave
For Wyoming to escape from society.
As I cleaned out the old refrigerator,
I found an old copy of the Lubbock Avalanche
With the headline:
BABY SURVIVES 200-FOOT DROP.
There was naked me falling from my mother,
And I saw we have the same gray latches.
I confronted the safety net about this,
And it couldn’t deny my heritage.
All these years, I don’t know
Why I never questioned my true roots.
I, with brick red skin, and it with long
Blue threads.
When I drove to my father, he was too
Sedated on Lithium to speak, so I
Climbed the stairs to my mother.
“Why did you leave?” I asked.
“I didn’t” she said. “You’re the one
Who jumped.” She laughed, then said
“You were always gloomy
Waiting behind the glass.
“You get that from your father.”
I rescued a metal bed frame
From the town dump a month ago.
It’s been raining a lot lately,
So it was all covered in rust:
Brilliant chalky mahogany rust.
Still is.
I sleep on it all time.
There’s red stripes on the
Bottom of my mattress.
I don’t care.
When I wake up, I see
It has painted my face
A nice orange-tinted rouge.
It’s wonderful.
“Throw it out,” they say.
I refuse.
“Well, at least paint it.”
But I can’t do that.
It would lose all its flavor.
When I lick those auburn
And crimson bars at night,
I swear I taste peanut butter
With a hint of cherries jubilee.
I love how it stains
My tongue, and its essence
Lingers.
I’m completely happy.
Don’t worry about me.
I’ve had my tetanus shot,
So I can do whatever
The hell I want.
Corey Don Mingura recently completed a MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Central Oklahoma in May 2011. His works of fiction, poetry, and poetry analysis have appeared in The Acentos Review, Westview, The Simms Review, Red Lightbulbs and The Scissortale Review. He currently serves as the associate poetry editor for Arcadia. Mingura is a Mexican-American native of Hollis, Oklahoma.
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ISSUE:
F A L L
2012
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