I Want a Deli in It

I Want a Deli in It

Some poets’ landscapes

are too stark for me,

their vistas spare,

deprived in form and content,

so I get hungry at the breaks,

each time a bloodless phrase

is turned, and skinny similes

just ramble dryly on and on.

Too quickly, I begin to crave

cream cheesy themes,

an ample bagel’s verve,

pastrami, lox,

where there’s no heft,

no meat, just desert sand,

a shade like Gulden’s mustard

yet without its zip,

its smooth, cohesive texture.

I long for something solid, then:

good chewy chunks of speech

like Polish sausage, pumpernickel;

yet all I get are tasteless dunes,

bland yucca spears,

a slice or two of cryptic sky.

Mojave pastorals are not for me;

their mesas beckon mainly to

ascetics

who think of substance as a sin,

and that a worthy feast

is made of wind and grit

(no caraway) blown carelessly

across some bleached white

bones of words.

If there’s no piquant pickle’s bite,

no corn-beefy lines to love,

no beaming human being there,

gesticulating at me

from behind the counter’s glass

then, I repeat, reiterate:

a poem isn’t much,

it’s really desiccated,

without a deli in it.

These poems were retyped by Donna Champion—the originals scans have numerous typos which I can't seem to eradicate. Blame it on dyslexia. They were prepared for the Petaluma Art Center's Day of Remembrance and I was double-booked for tow events, so Donna kindly offered to read them. But I was given two different sets of directions and poor Donna was driving around around one dark and storm night with new windshield wipers to deliver these poems of remembrance. By the time she got to the right place, it was too late. Blame it on dyslexia. I didn't catch the error on time. The least I could do is to repost them here. So yes, you will find these poems in Tomcat and Bodies Nearly Touching—but these are certified error-free. More or less. Besides, each poem really should have its own page. If only I can twist Donna's arm to type up some more. Maureen Hurley

California Magdeline

California Magdeline

On the road to Delano

in the late 1960s

the atheist’s daughter

(a tarnished young woman)

ponders this question:

“What was his name

on the road to Damascus

Saul something or other?”

A curious thought

for a wanton blasphemer

heading north on the highway,

up from Los Angeles,

over the Grapevine

in a blue station wagon

covered with slogans:

“Viva la causa!”

Raised as a cynic,

transgressor, irreverent,

she is secretly lusting

to give herself up to

someone who is worthy,

a cause that has meaning.

She’s a penitent,

this journey a pilgrimage.

Not Jesus her Savior

but a poor campesino

Cesar Chavez, the leader

of the Farm Workers’ Movement.

San Joaquin is her Holy Land,

Delano is Calvary:

redemption for bad girls,

salvation for gringos.

“And what was her name?”

(comes another odd question)

“The harlot who washed him,

sponged dirt from his ankles,

she who was pardoned

for all indiscretions,

the sins of the fathers

no longer her burden?”

Back home from Delano

in the late 1960s

comes the atheist’s daughter

who’s paid homage to Cesar

(his love like a mother’s).

Now bathed in the aura

of that pacifist martyr,

she’s become a believer.

Flarchy

Whenever she didn't feel too good, Marianne was wont to say, "Not today, dear, I'm feeling rather flarchy." That's feeling discombobulated and out of sorts. I forgot all about Marianne's coined word until someone asked what my Halloween plans were and I wrote, without thinking—not much, I'm feeling rather flarchy. Going to have to explain that one, I'm sure.