Monthly Archives: September 2018

Until the End of the Rain and the Sudden Demise of Endless Rainy Nights

Photograph by Jose Padua
And I was waiting at my local dive bar
for a woman who never showed up
and the longer I waited
and the greater the amount of time
without seeing her face at the other end
of the swinging front door
the less I liked my friends
the less I liked my bourbon and my beers
and instead of leaning on them
I just wished I were somewhere I could be alone
which if I remember correctly
is what I finally did though
I had to go to a different neighborhood
where I didn’t know anyone
because these were the days when I knew
so many people and so many people knew me.

One night in New York I met a woman
whose parents came from Asia like mine
and she was in her late twenties/early thirties like me
but she was already a widow
and she worked at a bar called America
and I walked her home from the old Village bar
up to her building just below Chelsea
and whenever I went to America she was never there
so I never stayed for more than one drink
and it wasn’t long before I figured out
that drinking in America wasn’t the right thing
for me and one night I walked away from America
down busy brightly lit streets and dark deserted streets
every one of them sad like dirty dishes lying
in a broken sink in an abandoned building.

As for everything else if it wasn’t strange
it wasn’t alive enough for me to want;
if love and death never occurred at least once
in the same sentence there wasn’t much
reason to continue speaking
nor desire to look at stars scattering slowly like junkies
when I opened the door to my building and walked
up the stairs over the chicken bones
and heroin wrappers along with stepped-on cigarette butts
while catching whiffs of empty 40 oz. bottles
still alive with the drunken visions of romantics
more desperate than I would ever be.

And so until the end of the rain
and until the sudden demise of endless rainy nights
waiting on friends who never come
let us gather our objects of grief like fierce weapons
against the kingdom of the ruling class;
let us stalk the nightmares of long disappeared lovers
and drown the dark apparitions that haunted them
so they may sleep with both eyes closed;
may the next door that opens be carrying through it
someone of more than passing acquaintance,
rescued at last as if from the slow scattering of stars travelling
through the vacancies of three dimensional space;
and may you raise your tumblers to one another
then let the liquid in them grow warm
the more lost you get amongst
sidewalk cracks on dark corners,
sinkholes on every boulevard and side street,
and everything else in the world
that’s so broken
so beautiful and
so gone.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

The Sight of my Neighbor Limping

Photograph by Jose Padua
The sight of my neighbor limping to his front door
in the dim, late-evening light, walking from his truck,
down the driveway to the sidewalk, then toward the
front steps of his house, his bad arm nearly dragging
from his shoulder behind his back like some name
he can’t remember—an old friend from back in the day
when he lived closer to the city with plenty to do and
places to go—reminds me of how little I know of his story.
Just that his wife has a hard time staying sober long enough
so the cops don’t have to drag her away to jail. Just an idea
that when the liquor has left the blood that flows beneath
one’s skin, the cold, gray walls of a jail cell must look
like the hardest substance on Earth. Which is to say
that it’s so much easier for me to imagine being her
than being him, so much easier to think about things
done wrong than things lost. And he takes his good arm
and stretches it straight in front of him as he turns to pull
his front door shut in time to sit in front of the television
to watch the Sunday night game. His wife is coming
home again at the end of the month when it’ll be more
than halfway through the third quarter season’s rush
toward winter. Time to crank up the wood stove, send
rough blue smoke from the chimney toward the sky.
Time to feel the tips of all one’s fingers, celebrate the motions
that make it easy to believe it’s easy being alive. Comfort
is the warmth and stillness of sitting near the heart of
a hundred year old, small town house. Comfort is the moment
after work when there’s nothing that needs to be moved.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua. This poem was first published at Vox Populi.

On the Loving Grace of Well-Oiled Machines

Photograph by Jose Padua
It was eighth grade during
Sister Conrad’s English class
when we’d read an article or two
out loud from the latest issue
of Reader’s Digest.
Every month she picked up
a big box filled with copies
from the classroom floor,
laid it down on her desk
and opened it up proudly.
We’d pass a pile of them
down each row of desks,
every one of us a cog
in the well-oiled machine
of the classroom—
me holding my hands out,
grabbing a pile from
the girl in front of me,
picking one out for myself,
then passing the rest behind me
before marveling at the flat surface
of a magazine shaped
like a small gift box.
And I remember that month
when the article we
read out loud was
“I Am Joe’s Man Gland”
and we learned how Joe’s
left testicle manufactured
sperm and a magical substance
called testosterone that
made Joe a man of action,
and I knew that some of the kids
were trying not to laugh
while reading out loud
about some old man’s balls,
but me, I was just scared
because I thought that Joe sounded
like the Dad of the kid
who sat next to me,
a kid who was big-eyed
slow and serious,
the kind of person to whom
I never had much to say
and who during a discussion
of the soldiers who were
then on trial for taking part
in the My Lai massacre
said that killing was simply
what a soldier like his Dad
was supposed to do because
if your orders were to kill
then by God you’d better
go ahead and kill.
And there never was an article
about Jane’s woman gland
though maybe we just never
got around to reading one,
or never made the time,
or maybe we graduated
by the time Reader’s Digest
got around to it
but maybe that’s how
patriarchy works,
so fast and efficient
when it comes to killing,
so in love with the magic
of finding beautiful new worlds
to destroy.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

A Short History of Monsters and Everything Else that Gives Substance to the Dream

Photograph by Jose Padua
In certain ways the thirty-year old guy with the man-bun
and beard wearing a neatly fitting tee shirt on a summer day
is just as much of an asshole as the drunk guy with the
Confederate flag and gun who ends up shooting himself
in the leg thinking he’s defending America from the next
great invasion, each deluded by the pressure and trends
within their respective peer groups, except it’s unlikely
that the hipster with the man-bun is ever going to shoot
anyone or consciously exercise his political will for the
purpose of oppressing anyone who doesn’t look like him,
while the only person the good ole guy with the gun is
going to save is a man wearing a three piece suit who worries
less about his sagging balls than the possibility that his profits
might one day sag along with them. And so the system
as it now exists continues to flourish like influenza and
seasonal allergies, depending on the time of year, and
its structures are firmly in place to the benefit of the
idle rich and in deference to the perverse dreaming
of the dwindling numbers of the upwardly mobile as
they trash and burn their merry way to their new luxury
condominiums decorated in beautiful pastel colors.
When I’m not dreaming in black and white my dreams
are the color of monsters, of the scary characters in fairy tales
the way they were originally written, full of sadness and
distress and cold, bitter endings. But every day I wake up,
every day I open my eyes and feel alive. Every day I consider
the effect of wind and falling rain on white marble monuments,
and wonder how the colors of the ancient world might be
best applied in the creation of new civilizations, new names.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua. Although this poem shares a title with the book that’s coming out in the spring, it’s not part of that collection.