We Who Fight With Air

We who fight with air

a.
Like a moth
whose flight
is never straight
consider this bum
warming himself
by the heated
conversation
he carries on
with himself
along whose streets
to wander
is to know
clarity of vision
born of dissonance.
The bum is me.
I'm in a bar in Tecate
with a whore at my side.
Trying to steal my money
she's got one hand
in my pocket
while the other hand
fondles my crotch.
I don't care.
The coin's been tossed.
I lost and now must chronicle
the passion with the pain.
Jon across from me.
He gives the whore the coin.
Kathy is dead.
In a drunken stupor
I keep saying to myself:
Why is it given us
when it's made
to be taken away?

b.
A grim business
I'm about,
gathering my despairs
into small comforts.
Daily, distractions
of flesh
in a landscape
of temptations.
Like a three
dimensional
laser image
of a crucified
tearful Jesus
I can’t quite
comprehend
but can’t
get out of my head
the terrors in me
wade through little deaths
as I mentally wander
lost to myself
in this seedy bar in Tecate
wondering if the sex
will be worth it.

c.
From somewhere
out of the dry night air
the perfumed sage
of memory
heart holds in hand
like a plant red vines hone
to a greater cleanliness
from whose purity of scent
almond, sandy voices
whisper names
I once wrote in sand.
I marvel over the runes
cast, hunting
what can't be caught.

Mother, Father,
scent of apple crisp,
of orange
and lemon trees
waft toward me
from inside out
their breeze peels
each fragrance to its core
revealing hot
California summers,
granite hills, days
that rocked me
like a ridiculous dingy
now storm stripped
to this windy tale, robbing
that past of heat.

As the sun climbs
into the sky
like a stubby finger,
I move on in my surge
with undertows,
salty in the aftertaste of love,
driving back from Tecate
to El Cajon talking of death
and toasting life.


Scott Malby

Posted over on A Little Poetry