Michael James Martin

American Padlocks

“Padlocks are manufactured with solid bodies made of case hardened steel, solid brass or anodized aluminum. Shackles are of case hardened steel or boron alloy construction; cylinders are solid brass.”
				– Patt Corporation

1.
Miss Blabbermouth’s makeup tattoos are what
    make her so sweet.
Ant Queen when the hill is a bar; she wipes spit off
    her lips
shakes the bottle
hears the swish ’n’ gurgle and says Keep ’em 
    coming baby until chlorine’s in her nose
she’s submerged, no one knows
within the underground wonderland Alice hasn’t 
    seen. Mr. Kineval’s 
pit stop padlock Deathshop doom leap
where sidewalks end in steep drops.
And that’s how she likes it: cold fevers
shotgun shivers, which is how she got married, so
yes, that’s how she likes it.

2.
Can we see the silver lining
of her panties dilapidated and comfortable
vines, brass belt clicked closed
tangled, we haggled and bragged
failed, wondered whether discussing gender 
    incongruities
would change any of our locks, let us Be men not 
    Requisites expired
or . . . Conversationalists, lover-fighters, sensitive
    brutes with wartorn hands
dirty nails, she says with such virility
odd her femininity is unquestioned. Then why does 
    she grow angry
as we gaze into her happy but broken Arabic eyes
and mention calmly Monogamy is like
carbonated water, has fizzle, pop, pop – don’t want
    the party to stop
but, smack of the lips, it is tasteless.

3.
Reflex shotgun mechanism at the little devil I am
a child of the corn stalks
adapted and drafted for the burning black rapids
    	(the army ain’t for me, men, the army ain’t
 	    for me
	mountains, barb wire, unit of my own –
	army still gon’ come get me).
Can you write without hands? I ask each recruiter,
    my future
possibly a well-paid writer penning poems on 
    coffee-stained napkins
hand shaking vehement chickenscratch
    remembering deeds done.
Now she says Should be writing about our café then
    – fakes here
wish I would tell her how much I hate boulevard
    cafés though
French fox pits, redlight fleshblood mannequin
    quips, café stints
is where they threw slave brave black tiger soldiers
killed Frenchmen like Wow with honors, papers 
    quoted
the French man Nous mourrions avec eux
					   We would
    die with them.
Black men aren’t abbreviated Americans there
they’re just Frenchmen.

4.
Probability survey says prognosis negative, her
    featherweight
stiletto heels hit metal pang bang, slip
lips on mine, neon bodies spooned in twine.
Men nicknamed her nickname Corner Café (finest
café to come since 60s pinups) although
for twenty-five minutes she is my only, literally
passion devours, until afterwards when we are dire
    animals
married atoms sparking pilfered uranium
she whispers her nickname: Al-Rahabat Boulevard
over outside noises and licks my ear: Fuck the
    guards.
Chest hurts; she anaconda squeezes, releases
    CRACK-SNAP-CRACK
excessive onomatopoeias, throws medusa fits
so she isn’t the one stoned to death, ready to eat rare
if necessary.

5.
take her fake down pillow and feign suffocation.
I mutter offhandedly about The Dead I Bury
ferry, how the nights look different, sky darker than
    nights of
mine sweeps, worse job to have after sweating in
    bed.
She asks a question, like she did in the beginning
of our relationship, whatever remnant relationship
    there is to be had:
Want to see where the end begins and the fun never
    ends?
Her tongue stumps Sphinxes.
We both think: Is this love?
Gun chatter shatters the empty space in time,
and now she isn’t feeling talkative.
We part ways
by parting dirty sheets, turning to opposite bedsides
nude, she smirks smacks her lips, You aren’t as
    handsome as you assume
rude, skin scent of papaya fruit, taste tangy, spicy
then we get clothed – her
tying a dress, shawls, I
my gun (wasn’t very far, clothes never came off)
and I listen tentative, stomach primitive to her
    footsteps shrinking dead
buzzing silence
hurts a little, doesn’t draw a tear, but hurts a little.

6.
Spit me out can’t grind me up, I’m rusted iron.
Best advice is find a trustworthy Eve, she’ll know
    the basics
like count extra skips in double-dutch, don a smaller
    leaf
let guys and snakes double touch; all-out circus. I’m
    anxious boy
Robert Neville anxious, Vincent Price in The Last
    Man on Earth alone –
Man, man, man . . . this is what it’s come to –
    chewing stalk, stalk chewing at my gums
and this is my life: recruiter tells me Money is 
    worth its weight in service,
there the toilet seats are gold, pen in hand, pen
    doesn’t work
Get him a pencil – But sir, pencil wouldn’t be legal.

This is my life boy, and I feel like I’m in trouble.

Civil War Valentine’s Day Massacre
shoot ten shoots one shoots the shit bamboo shoots
    heroine
MP’s list worst places than the barracks and home:
    DMV
Which one? Viet-
nam or Viet-
cong? Kong? The room is quiet, deadlocked,
    padlocked
beneath a magazine below me
newspaper folded; newspaper opens
wounds, pass the salt:

	Bomb Blast
		Al-Rahabat Boulevard.

8.
			Huh? –
				–  The Dead I Bury.
______

Michael James Martin lives in California.