James Cervantes

Gladdy's Blues




Gladdy's Blues


Gladdy Chromatic comes in lugging rubric
of mendacious ecology, doing rancid,
Barstow Eskimo blues. With banshee quickstep
and definite armpit augur, Gladdy's street pluck

roams swanlike beside an atheist anchovy. 
I tell her to lay off Columbus gin mash,
Christlike schizophrenia, rheumatic greenery,
and to quit riding that lean needle surrey.

But then she goes into a flex Fargo crimp
and frog leitmotiv of augmented Mozart,
on and on about her affair with Cutaneous
Abram's janitorial ontogeny.

He's vertical immigrant proficient--
reminds her of acrylic where Chomsky
Budapest meets congestive roughshod Emily.
It was, she says, an inaccessible inflammation.

Beneath amazon skyscrape, hairpin radar
catches them and writes out a chronicle ticket
in tubular Illinois.  That's when the Viking
restaurateur pulls a pantry prank smooth

as veterinarian clockwork, his impeccable
wiggly furze doing a fragmentary
lease clank. Gladdy's motto derision
of his superior effluvium births

minimum haiku: "Eighty-do-Madonna-
beyond-Bleeker," yells the Viking. 
Gladdy's culvert gunman is witty
appointee with incumbent drink.

Gladdy and gunman climb aboard
an anthropogenic Packard omnibus,
skeedaddling like a sinister patch. 
"Vanquish nutrition," they yell.


   - for Harriet Green, sculptor


She wants sympathy for the bent spine
and the hollowed insides,
the desperation of nowhere to lay eggs
but in another dead space.
Today she made its baby

and wants to lay it in front
of the skull where the mother
laid her eggs in the eye sockets.
How else to display them?
Perhaps the skull is also the father.

The baby is already empty.
The sides of its hollow come together
at the end to form another channel.
Anything poured into this baby
will simply flow out again.




- for Obododimma Oha


Sheep dip by the numbers,
Alabama to Texarkana in sleep.
Rest stops include a narrow view,
sign monkeys, censorship providers.
Wind blows in the same direction
Wednesday through Friday,
then a mood of migration
wafts in through the slats.
Nobody knows what's going on.



JAMES CERVANTES was the editor of The Salt River Review for thirteen years. His latest book, Temporary Meaning, is available from Hamilton Stone Editions. Other books include The Headlong Future, The Year Is Approaching Snow, and Changing the Subject, a dialogue in poems with Halvard Johnson.  Beginning with its July issue, he will be editing poetry for Sol, an online literary magazine out of San Miguel de Allende.