PROLOGUE

            When the Spanish painter Francisco Goya had been pushed to the brink of madness after witnessing the destruction of the Napoleonic wars, along with bloody civil conflicts, in his home country, he locked himself in seclusion in a small cottage with only his maid to accompany him. Instead of the royal portraits and joyous scenes of people enjoying a beautiful day in the park he was famous for, he painted a series of macabre and grotesque works directly onto the walls in his dwelling. These became known as the Black Paintings.

            Each year, in October, I like to write spooky poems for Halloween, and last year, I decided to write a collection of poetry based on these paintings. The idea was to take the “spirit of the poem” and to apply it to life in the US in 2023. That means that my poems aren’t mere descriptions of what is seen in the artwork nor are they necessarily my own opinions. I just asked, how can we see the type of dread in each poem in the world today. For example, the painting “The Dog” depicts a dog drowning while looking up at the sky for a salvation that will never come. It was meant to represent humanity in its despair with nobody to save us. “Fight with Cudgels” was a representation of the Spanish people being turned against each other in war. I tried to take these meanings and show what they might look like in our modern world.

            Initially, I thought about trying to submit this into contests for short collections of poetry called chapbooks. However, it seemed too niche, and I was playing a lot with some experimental forms/styles. Plus, the people I talked to seemed concerned about publishing it with the art, even though it is all public domain. With that being the case, you all are the beneficiaries of this free poetry dump!

ATROPOS (THE FATES)

and you mix that cough medicine

with the bottle of wine that’s been

rolling

around the back of the fridge for weeks

just for peace of mind. what

is so bad about pain?

oh, my child, three days old, chosen

to live, take with you this string; watch

the sun rise over you, a balloon

of golden helium, showering you

with light. all

that you will ever be, you

already are.

just do what feels natural,

even when it doesn’t feel

natural. what’s so hard

to get?

i send the cars that narrowly

miss you flying through the blood-red

lights, the viruses that make you gasp

for air, the dreamless sleep.

look at those curls;

look at those cheeks;

smell the perfume of innocence

already lost. what is innocence

anyways?

hold your breath; force your head

under the water. i make

your legs kick. appreciate it

because one day they won’t.

but you fight me, fight

me, fight me. where could you

want to go that isn’t already in my plan?

take those first steps, my

precious gift. take those first

                        steps and never

stop walking.

you can never be content, can you?

that ego of yours. those

callouses and migraines. maybe a few more

early mornings and you’ll get your prize,

right? here, take this book:

(since you won’t read the one

that i gave you at your birth)

The American Dream

and one hundred other jokes

you can tell yourself

late at night.

keep your feet under the blankets or feel

my cold breath on your toes and feel my blade

on the thread of your

being. what’s so wrong with three meals,

a warm bed, and a loving family? you say you’re grateful,

but you’re holding out for some intangible greatness.

somewhere within you,

like the teeth waiting to crest, is

your entire future. you feel it

and coo. sure, you’ll lose the wisdom,

but we recommend that you

learn to love us –

amor fati –

before it’s too late.

TWO OLD MEN

in the pitch black

            of our complete deafness, the demon’s

voice echoes uninhibited in the

                        mind. in the dark-

ness of silence, the screens

shine brighter, the madness

            of comparison sinks its fangs

into your neck, just below

your double chin, just

above your flabby chest. in this

                        isolation

we craft our self-portraits, surrounded

by nothing, filled by should or could

or one day: those demented

satirists of our own experience.

            the quiet

is as intense as the flash of a hydrogen bomb.

the voices        are blinding.

PILGRIMAGE TO THE FOUNTAIN OF SAN ISIDORO

your gavel was designed

            to roar like the storming hooves of wild

                        stallions, not the roll

of thunder, of terror in the deceptively clear

skies.       the heavens are hidden by rusty sheet metal

            over the heads of the horses you’ve locked

away in stables, made pathetic beasts, stood

            in their own excrement. in the secrecy

of your court, there is no light, your faces

                                    shadowed by dirty, backroom deals.

your antiquated robes, a propos of your ideology,

            harken to the horrors of inquisitors,

            of the trembling of a nation before your rulings:

cruelty the only commonality, suffering,

                        the only safe prediction. the parade

of progress has stagnated at your back. your christ

is made of gold. your christ turns wine

            into consent. your christ

                        reclines while his disciples

            wash his feet. your christ tightens the reigns, no crown

of thorns but spurs of scorn. we whinny for freedom

and whine for autonomy. objection!

                        overruled.

SATURN DEVOURING HIS SON

you poisoned the air & poisoned the water,

paid off the rich who bathe in their wealth,

fed your urges at the expense of your sons & your daughters.

your trucks & your meat have made the world hotter;

your grandchildren’s future buried behind yourself:

you poisoned the air & poisoned the water.

you bought all the houses or sold them to investors

while we fight with inflation to get what little’s left:

feeding your urges at the expense of your sons & your daughters.

you collect on your interest while our hopes just get smaller,

climbed all the ladders & pulled them with stealth.

you poisoned the air & poisoned the water.

you elect politicians who treat us like the economy’s fodder

& you’ll die soon before you see the consequences

of feeding your urges at the expense of your sons & your daughters.

we’re the first generation betrayed & crushed by our fathers,

& you’ve wielded power as if our success would mean your death.

you’ve poisoned the air & poisoned the water,

feeding your urges at the expense of your sons & your daughters.

TWO OLD ONES EATING SOUP

a pillar of steam billows up

            from the arthritic spoon and fades

                        into the ether before

the stars, the disappointed

constellations. our bowls are no longer gilded –

plates incrusted with jewels fell out of fashion

            with tunics and crusades – but our kingly

            appetites are put on display

with blood and fat and sugar, counterfeit decadence,

            decay designed to shine, to seduce the

nostrils. there is nothing here

except the wicked, gummy grin, gnawing

            falsehoods in the spotlight, nothing

                        but hunger cries drowning

in laugher, nothing but starvation amplified

by state-mandated gluttony,

            the slop we feed ourselves,

                                feed our children,

a slow national suicide, a food desert famine of obesity.

they kill their own citizens

and let the others die.

PILGRIMAGE TO SAN ISIDORO

was it really the paradise you

imagined,

 the proud verdant parks, the crisp

            aroma of crunchy leaves in October,

the unified      

            spirit? like Napoleon

rising to fame by unleashing his cannons

            on the protesters in the streets of Paris,

it seems the soot

            of tyranny and fear

has vandalized the stoic brick faces

            looking over the city

where we used to ride bikes

and toss footballs.       suspicion

and distrust have poisoned our minds

            as we cross streets to avoid each other,

            board up our windows,

            keep our fingers

on our triggers. i can’t help but wonder,

has it all changed

or have i just eaten the apple?

FIGHT WITH CUDGELS

the coal’s gone cold. the mine’s shut down. our clocks,

they move much faster than theirs, years that pass

in hours. now, they say, they’re dragged by claw

to futures that’re so different too fast,

too fast, too fast. and here, the rent’s too high.

there’s drugs and drunks and gangs. the roaches choke

on spray paint fumes and smoke of literary

inconvenience. the government’s no hope,

we say, as they’re held captive by hick lies

because they’re scared of foreign lives on their

so-called ancestral soil. and we despise

them. they like labeling us murderers

and sinners. while the rich observe with glee,

like dogs, we tear each other to bloody heaps.

ASMODEA

the bombs, among the last things

            made in the US: our proudest

                        export. they come

adorned in stars and stripes flag stickers, free

two-day delivery. we

            want peace. we want to love.

we want to work the land and toast to the production.

we just want to chill out and

            laugh. but they won’t stop,

            the explosions or those that

                        send them. like farmers burning trees

and plowing soil, they clear the people,

            the blood, the history

            as if to say that they won’t stop

                        until they have an America

on every street corner, fast food raining

like manna in the desert, the civilians prostrate

to the one true God in all of its

            crumpled, demonic-green denominations. they won’t rest

                                                i’m afraid,

until we spend all of our days in their factories

and our evenings accusing, accosting,

            and waging war

                        on our neighbors.

JUDITH AND HOLOFERNES

a behemoth with its face shrouded

            in a veil of storm clouds,

it crushes the world beneath its gnarled feet.

the windy breath that blows with the bellowing

            commands for war and calls for blood reeks

                        with the sulfur-stained fury of militaristic maniacs.

it needs no crown, no gems. it doesn’t ask to be

worshipped. it doesn’t ask

for anything. it simply demands with thunder and bribes. it

tells you to march, and you do

because all of your other muscles have atrophied. its

hunger, the black hole in its stomach is the collapsed

supernova of greed, of pulsing desire for quarterly

            growth and profit margins. who is the CEO hidden

behind walls of automated answering machines? who

can we talk to about this? who is the federal official

who controls our information? the locus

of its might clandestine, the beast will

devour the mountains, the forests, the streams,

            the people

unless we remove the strategically hidden head

with the blade of love, compassion, and contentment,

            our most precious defense.

EL GRAN CABRÓN/WITCHES’ SABBATH

they genuflect to their self-proclaimed savoir.

it’s golden, polished, brilliant:

the story He tells from his perfidious pulpit,

a religion of wealth, a prophecy of prosperity.

it’s golden, polished, brilliant:

our country, our flag, our fury.

a religion of wealth, a prophecy of prosperity

if we close our eyes and hear only Him.

our country, our flag, our fury

are dripping with blood and broken promises.

if we all close our eyes and hear only Him,

it’s a witch hunt, fake news, fake news, fake news.

dripping with blood and broken promises,

they fall in line with their cult, a faith of destruction.

it’s a witch hunt, fake news, fake news, fake news.

there is only One who speaks the Truth.

they fall in line with their cult, a faith of destruction,

and their leader, rusted, raspy, pathetic

is the only One who speaks the Truth,

not based on reality but on their weakness, their phobias, their hatred.

their leader, rusted, raspy, pathetic

tells them to burn the books and rebuild,

not based on reality but on their weakness, their phobias, their hatred.

science is evil. history is evil. schools are evil.

and they burn the books and rebuild

an animosity that singes the nose with smoke and sulfur.

science is evil. history is evil. schools are evil.

only He will protect them, so they believe.

an animosity that singes the nose with smoke and sulfur

bleeds from His rotten gums.

only He will protect them, so they believe

and genuflect to their self-proclaimed savior.

MEN READING

clicks.

clicks. clicks. clicks. clicks.

            clicks.

we’ve become a democracy

            of clicks, of social media

engagement. handsy politicians

in the public theater. rain showers

            in Russian gold. they shamelessly finger-

paint conspiracies

            on the walls of our national monuments

            with their clubbed and fungus-riddled claws. anything

            goes as long as it peels eyelids, generates

what could loosely be considered to be

conversations, staccato squawks on lonesome keyboards

                        in middle America, in stay-at-home mom

suburbia. the vaccine is going to kill us all. immigrants

are going to kill us all. wind

            turbines are going to kill us all. they see

those of us not scared shitless laughing at them,

                        and in their exclusive lounges,

            smoking Cuban cigars,

laugh back, even louder.

MAN MOCKED BY TWO WOMEN

the proliferation of our national

humiliation. why does this seem

to get us off? the phobia of science,

the crumbling of our schools, the decay-

ing of our compassion, the bonfire

of our withered wisdom. they laugh.

we’re the joke. and we love it,

shamelessly aroused by shame.

we no longer stand at attention

for our relentless military prowess

and power. being

a beacon of light, a firm tower

of idealism no longer makes us

throb. we’ve stopped stroking

in the river of progress. neither

patriotism nor natural beauty gives us

the irresistible urge to explore

ourselves. now, we’re just

some pervert in the library of nations

with one hand tearing the pages from books

and the other in our own pants.

LA LEOCADIA

it’s all over now, but the crying, sweet-

                        heart. oh, but we’re

            family; we help each other

            like when you slid down the icy free-

way on your day off because Stacy’s

Volkswagen had a flat, and that kid

            spilled chocolate milk all down your

            pants. oh, but we

            were family, and now,

                        they hand you a pink slip. nobody

knows how to work anymore. and it was dusk when you

            got in each morning to pour coffee

            for the locals, ignoring their gaze as you turned

            to walk to the kitchen, and it was dark

when you punched out. you bit your tongue

            when the quality dropped – serving greasy slop

                        to save a few bucks, dollars

that you’ll never see. whelp. inflation. whelp.

regulation. whelp. the economy. perfectly dressed in trendy

black, you mourn. we thank you for your service,

            but we’re downsizing the wait staff. best

of luck. it’s all over

now, but the crying, sweetheart. 

THE DOG