POEMS


Eden and Gemora in Nicaragua

     “Are you sure you don’t want to come along,” asked my surf guide Craig and I nodded my head no. 

     It’s a hundred and five inside this mess hall and the humidity is neck in neck with the heat.  Thank God there’s a cloud cover now, because earlier it was murder. 

     We surfed twice this morning.  Both sessions lasted over two hours, and if I said I was parched afterwards, it would be like a chronic emphysema sufferer saying they were having difficulty breathing.  I’ve eaten lunch, taken a nap, and shut the nagging voices in my head the hell up, and here I am, back in the surf camp cantina, but this time not for food, not the type one put’s in their mouth anyway. 
   
     I’m sitting here stroking the keys on my netbook like a blind man amputee making love in the dark or a deaf symphonic composer whose only chance at becoming noteworthy will occur post mortem and I’ve suddenly become aware the commissary has become empty except for myself and the Spanish speaking help. 

The thick tropical air is only punctuated by the local Nicaraguan radio station broadcast underway…”Musica, noticias y advertisias, a todo mundo” and two lovely senoritas are having a mid afternoon chat on a wicker sofa no more than ten feet from my small round table.  If I were in the States, either Oprah or The View would be blaring away somewhere nearby, but it’s not, and I’m captivated by their loveliness.  If I didn’t know better, and I usually don’t, I’d say one of them, or possibly both, are in the market for a gringo husband.  But that’s typically where I go when the voices in my head strike up like a fourth of July marching band parading down Main Street.

But be that as it may, I’m not sure which smells better, the exotic rainforest blossom sitting in this small glass mustard jar in front of me or the aroma of handmade corn tortillas frying twenty feet behind me in God knows what, both scents are possibly the other side of bliss and the tropical birds and monkeys making a ruckus outside the mosquito net may as well be the siren song of the jungle gods.

I feel as though I’m stuck somewhere in between Eden and Gomorrah.  Stuck I say, I the broken Aquarian man mired, a perverse broken character from an off season Nativity scene wedged deep inside a strong case of questionable mental health on one side while flanked by some good old homegrown Oedipus on the other.
I am stuck and am a sinner.  I am stuck and am a liar.  I am stuck and am a thief.  I am stuck and am an adulterer.  I am stuck and am a blasphemer.  Stuck in vanity, stuck in ungodliness, stuck in jealousy, stuck in resentment, stuck in weakness, stuck in uselessness, hopelessness, and just plain neediness.  The stuck, needy hungry man, add a quarter pound of ground beef, packaged spices enclosed, two cups of water, and simmer for twenty minutes.  Serves two. 

I am all these things and I am nothing.  I am a man with a broken heart, whose soul searches for an oasis in this desert of desire…but my quest for freedom of self bondage is unrelenting…I wonder if that’s the only requirement necessary to achieve redemption?

 Sammy the mess hall cat just jumped up on my table and knocked over the salt shaker.  It landed on the hand painted tile and shattered into a million little pieces and I suddenly realize everything is broken and everything is whole and the Universe is perfect.