ditch,

the poetry that matters

Sean McPherson

Sean McPherson was born in Anchorage, AK and currently resides in Olympia, WA. This spring he received his MA in Spanish and Portuguese (a literary degree) from Tulane University. His poems have recently appeared in The Bacon Review, The Commonline Journal and Thirteen Myna Birds.

The Three Angels

 

Disappointment—

When did I become

Transposed

Transparent

Transpadane?

 

                The wild palms

                They fall on him

                And indifferent angels

                Stand by for an air break

                As if they hadn’t heard

                The crash of the Zildjians

                Or his cry for succor.

 

Banana trees

(The oaks of poor men)

Now cover me up

And I’m trapped

Within a teepee

Of leaves thick as hides.

 

                Idle, he sits and studies

                With cycloptic mind’s eye

                The caloric bodies

                Of his guardians:

 

1.       DJ Bliss                                Ludic legs

2.       Princess Zarf                      Another sarlacc pit of pedophilic love

3.       Ms. Magpie                         Jiggling jugs 

 

Oh, if they wanted me

They could have me

Have me, have me…

 

                Enough!

                He still flaunts a jot

                Of egotism.

 

I aliment myself

From the blatancy

Of fruits that dangle above me

Like celestial fellatio.

 

                Now energized,

                Trunks, flaps,

                Fruits and roots

                Go flying through

                The summery air

                And a major chord

                Green as The Hulk

                Resolves his Honduran regression.

 

A hale external locus of control

Gives me a virile thumbs-up.

“Esquece aquelas piranhas, meu caro”

He says, reminding me

Of my status as a polyglot.

I take it.

 

                His advice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Receiving My Hours

 

Perspiring

Just arrived

Cooling off now

In fan and shade.

 

Let in by the hand

An unintelligible brown Carioca

Wish I could understand her

Something about

April Fool’s Day.

 

Natural tension first meeting

Sit down:

 

New employee and boss, old wooden desk

 

Antiquated, boxy computer

High ceilings

Decadent white-and-blue painted

Open-window Latin architecture

Natural light outside

                Shutters

Natural shadow in

Distant traffic honks

Creaking floors

Séance steps

Little desks

Charming ambience.

 

Smile behind glasses

Gleaming intelligence

Peruvian schoolmaster

Calm, confident

In three languages

 

Me pretending to be

Portuguese a weed

Sprung up and spread

Through my prim Spanish            jardín;

 

I’m left not knowing

Which left hand to use.

 

Yes, me acting the wine bottle

Green but chill

In his silver bucket

 

Feigning ease

Like Carlos’ fidgety son

Playing by my side

Feigns naiveté;

 

Takes advantage

Of ostensible veil of infancy

To tease me about my age

My foreignness

And my Spanish

(Or was it my Portuguese?).

 

Carlos:

 

“Diego, para aí. Calma.

Desculpa, Sean. ¿Qué te decía?

¡Ah, sí! Eso de los estudiantes….”

 

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                                                                                                                 September 22, 2012