Stephen Barile
ON THE DEATH OF ADONIS
The blow came as I glanced away,
Looking to be anywhere but here
On the asphalt, and the concrete
Gas island at the Texaco station.
I reeled like a wobbly marble monument,
A statue by Dionisio Mazzuoli,
Adonis Being Killed by a Wild Boar.
White canaries flew around me
In concentric flight, disappearing
One by one, then reappearing,
An alarm bell rang in my flaming ear.
I struggled to stand,
To hold myself upright,
Buttressing against the gas pump
As my weasel-like foe
Stepped back on his heels waiting
For a rejoinder that never came.
His friend laughed. They climbed
Into a loud muscle-car
And peeled out, two pinheads
As observed from the rear window.
I like to think that his one punch
Hurt him more than me,
A thick-headed neighborhood kid
Longing for his mother’s love,
Tears evaporating like gasoline.
Unlike Adonis, no red flowers sprang
From the pavement of my shame.
MAGIC FINGERS
Open up your pocketbook,
Get another quarter out
Frank Zappa–200 Motels
And there they are, fucking at 9:00 AM.
It’s amazing how a man on top can fly
Backward landing upright and erect
On the floor like a movie played backward.
And the woman can cover herself so quickly
With a sheet before I can see anything,
Her legs kicking in the air
And the screams.
Mechanically, I turn away. Like the sight
Would burn my eyes, my chin in my chest.
Say I’m sorry. I knocked.
Then slam the door.
And I repeat the steps
Move on to the next room,
Redouble the process, arriving before
The maid has sprayed a fog of sanitizer
Or collected soiled sheets and towels.
Insert my passkey into the lock
On the box bolted to the nightstand,
Wired to the machine deep inside
The box springs under the mattress,
Collect quarters from within.
I return to the same room,
Different location, every night,
At the end of the balcony,
The last room anyone would choose.
The T.V. is screwed to the dresser,
The sheets are plastic, the bed hard, Bathroom antiseptic and sterile.
I pour bags of quarters on the bed,
Run my hands through other people’s money Looking for real silver I set aside.
Tubing coins in paper sleeves,
Stacking rolls of cash
Like logs, counting and recounting,
Filling out a deposit slip
For a Bank of America I’ll stumble on
In the morning, on my way to some Remote corner of a sentence,
The farthest point from my home.
Maybe, with a vibrating bed
You’d be able to forget
The cheap motel-room you’re in.
That’s right, forget it all,
Let it go . . .
Relax while you lay down
With soothing vibrations
Sent through the mattress
Until your time is up
And the bed stops shaking.
I hear a couple in the adjoining room,
I already know the world is sad.
THE PSYCHIC CALLED
On a two-lane interstate southbound
In wind-blown yellow grasses, somewhere
Between San Francisco and where we call home,
His widow, my sister-in-law And I talk about my brother
Who died on vacation in Mexico.
Our perspectives are clearly different.
As a couple they were at odds
For many years and separated.
He’s been dead for over a year now.
And she struggles to remember
The best moments of their marriage,
When their daughter was born,
When they travelled to New York City.
But not to worry, she said.
The psychic called and explained.
She had been on the phone
With a female psychic from Phoenix,
Arranging a personal appearance
On national television,
When the soothsayer said:
Your husband called and was quite emphatic.
He wouldn’t leave her alone.
He calls every day at the same time,
Wanting to know
The effect of his death on people’s lives.
He was caught somewhere in between,
She told her,
Becoming more overtly insistent
As only he could.
Regret kept him fixed in place.
He was eager to share
Newfound knowledge
With those he left behind,
The world of mysterious imaginings,
And flower arrangements,
Begging her from his place
of two-way mirrors, and illusions.
His sisters, he wants them to stop
With the grieving.
They have all his worldly possessions,
A thousand books,
Unsent love letters folded inside.
They should be able to find comfort by now.
The psychic called my sister-in-law again
At her office in Burbank.
He’s being downright pesky, she said.
He was singing Happy Birthday to himself,
It’s a good place, he said.
The universe is perfect.
Stephen Barile, a Fresno, California native, was educated in the public schools and attended Fresno City College, Fresno Pacific University, and California State University, Fresno. He is a long-time member of the Fresno Poet’s Association. Stephen Barile taught writing at Madera Center Community College, lives and writes in Fresno.
