R.T. Castleberry
I TELL YOU THERE IS A FIRE
Early in the morning,
as the Devil picks up his stride
the sun starts its arc.
Saplings snap across security fencing,
dripping leaves over shards of safety glass.
I watch the strut of a blackbird walking,
August wind razing the feather grass.
Through an open window,
Son House checks the day like a grave.
Mindful of memorial distance,
I calculate sympathy, check its balance
against advice from my crooked heart.
Gemini orphan, wreckage
from family wasted and gone,
I scatter pennies in the street
for the afternoon unlucky.
I repeat a password four times
to start my life online,
the daily assignment of lessons imposed
by a drinker’s cough, a flashy ignorant illness.
The Guillotine Panels hang beside
a beret, a newsboys cap,
a poster of the riot at The Rite of Spring.
Shaping symmetry from shambles,
from memories of the idiot dead,
losers to blown chance, bad choices,
I reassess biography, from those
who select against intelligence,
to those brutally a fool.
Naming is key.
TALKING IN AN EMPTY ROOM
I change my name when you stand before me,
my accent when you leave.
Cowboy defiance, hipster exception are
postures in desert-cracked doorways,
heat shaping pallid skin to steam.
My signature skips in the move to
shirt pocket Parker, briefcase Mont Blanc,
slices across a page, brittle in the bargaining.
Truth is a trickster, tailoring wit to advantage.
I lie to amuse, answers dependent on
whims of cruelty, inflection, displeasure.
Politics and faith are the loaded, lifted wallet,
cash in the busker’s hat.
Sounds of evening’s end carry down the street.
I watch you window shopping from the shadows,
grave and stumbling like the wounded.
I bet the count of steps until you turn,
death-white dress gleaming along patchwork stones.
CLARIFYING SALVATION
Half the night is sulking before me.
Cars in freeway distance are haloed by
lightning and neon, trucker headlights.
A red dial diver’s watch consumes
its measured trail.
Rolled shirt cuffs catch the stairway rail,
an onyx ring taps against a whiskey tumbler.
Seadrift relics mark the rooms, spinning
balances of water myth and wreckage.
I remember the prophet’s honor, wary in a cell,
a surplus of syringes, his treatise
written in prison code.
I take in all losses--
a Nassau gambler’s stiletto cane,
a Rothko letter on forgotten technique,
a trickster journal discounted
in the Beggar’s Bookshop.
They were brought to me
out of avarice, out of anguish.
I keep them safe—favor included in the fee.
Helicopters grounded by a strike,
I watch the feral prey upon the Garden.
More rumors fray the café conversations,
the rains of May arrive.
THE LEAST MORNING
I have hours left to waste,
to lay beside each other in sets,
placing crosswind traps, aligning
orb and funnel spider webs
under the sunny grain of the day.
Layers livid against garden fencing,
ivy clings to a warped wood railing.
Rainstorm tendrils, design weave
of wasp and robin’s nest
caution the eye.
Layman’s dare collapsed, molten at sun’s height,
I hang back in cradling shade.
Scuffing in dust circles, boots creak,
a smiling sigh says
nothing is open that you need.
TROPICS
Rain through the night
settles the day, the dust,
heat under a cane field drought.
Hungry on Friday, dry-throated,
I make the nights in
the racket of a broken-bladed fan,
aromas of pot and barbecue charcoal,
three hour blocks of nightmare monolog.
Morning sets me on a porch swing,
Topo Chico and a burning Salem at hand.
Early workmen idle against street-heavy traffic,
rat tail braids to their waist beneath hard hats.
Turned out from shelters,
those lost group and break apart,
harsh, hand-rolled smokes scorching the air.
I know that step, clumsy
with bourbon pints, daily ache,
walking weekday streets
in cheap sneakers, father-worn work boots.
Saharan dust cakes lips, lungs,
determines a day’s limits.
A dog pack trots the street-side grass.
Fast food bags flatten against security fencing,
freeway noise splits the block--overpass to red Stop.
One foot down, I rock on creaking chains,
trying to settle afternoon direction.
Disowning early calm, darkling clouds gather,
shade tree oaks creak in a rippling wind.
The feather of the moment has passed.
I gather myself, turn inside.
R.T. Castleberry is a widely published poet and critic. His work has appeared in Roanoke Review, Trajectory, White Wall Review, Steam Ticket, The Alembic, Silk Road and Misfit. Internationally, Castleberry’s work has been published in Canada, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, New Zealand and Antarctica. Mr. Castleberry’s work has been featured in the anthologies, Travois-An Anthology of Texas Poetry, TimeSlice, The Weight of Addition and Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen. His chapbook, Arriving At The Riverside, was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2010. An e-book, Dialogue and Appetite, was published by Right Hand Pointing in May, 2011.