Poetry

                                    astronomers discover radio signal “heartbeat”

                                    from across universe — mit, 13 july 22

a single heartbeat

revealing

repeating

billions of light years away

passionate pulsing

the heart’s pounding

is a song carried this far this long

to my eavesdropping

astronomers heard it first

they assert

it’s radio waves

from neutron stars impossibly far

now they’ll grasp how fast

we’re expanding exploding dispersing

disappearing

in a stellar wind

seekers proclaim order

in frequencies sorted

high low above below

they know

what it should mean to me

hearing seeing

cancer radiation being

numbers along waves spectrum

science-deafened heartbeat-lessened

i hear a provocative

rhythm driven

across the universe

echoing seduction

we meld

in neutron eruption

radiating our own

magnetic waves

another billion years

they will listen with intuition

imagine our passion unfastened

reaching the future

in a resonant

imploding

heartbeat …

it must have stopped by now

it must have stopped

© Gary P English 2022
Originally published in Home Planet News Issue #10, November 2022

I twist my body to squeeze my belly

between the greasy gas range

and yellow-tiled sink counter.

Curse the pendejo who

crammed the kitchen

into an 8x8 box.

Wedge my torso into the cranny by the front door

to escape my sweaty, cramped apartment.

Outside my adobe cave, the West Texas summer

sends a dust devil down my street, tumbleweed in tow.

“¡Ay, que calor!” a woman tells me

as she wobbles past.

“Tórrido,” I agree

watching ripples rise from burnt asphalt

where an ancient arroyo once spread.

Weary from 10 hours scouring hotel-suite baños,

her short, heavy legs force her body

further uphill.

Beyond her, the raw sienna rocks

of the Franklin Mountains

open the pass that names the dilating city

stolen from the desert.

Like angry javelinas,

new malls and nightclubs,

casas y calles

dart into the dusty kiln

of prickly pear and mesquite,

breach the Chihuahuan Desert.

Once a yucca or saguaro thrived

where the concrete front stoop

burns my thighs.

I survey the barrio corner where I live,

inhale menudo from down the street.

Taste sweat that trickles down my face

and wonder if cacti and rattlers

will ever

reclaim their land.

©  Gary P English 2022

Originally published in a slightly different form in Home Planet News, Issue #10, November 2022

My

angel — maybe

she’s my demon —

slipped me a roofie,

hoping I would grow groggy

and leave blistering visions of you

out on the dance floor. Vomit whisky

until my throat glows blue as firewalker coals.

Smoke blind, tell every woman I fancy her naked.

My angel demon slurs like a barstool drunk. Orders me

a round. Blurred images in neon light stagger by.

Now she’s as beguiling as a pole dancer.

I watch my angel strip away G-strings

of your memory, thread by thread.

The next morning, I wake

in young angel’s bed.

My mouth rejects

demon’s bitter

tongue.

© Gary P English 2022

Originally published in a slightly different form in Home Planet News Issue #10, November 2022

First, prep your canvas

for the illusion you’re bringing.

Lots of gesso. Yes. No. Don’t stop.

Cover the old crude sketch

You can’t erase.

More gesso, more. White it out.

You’ve got it! You’re a natural.

This should be simple.

Grab a tube of cerulean, or Prussian blue,

whichever you prefer.

Blend them together if you want, but not too much.

You want to leave patches detectable.

Now slather them all over your canvas.

Build a new background for your revision.

Don’t be careful, don’t be shy … good, good.

I told you it was simple.

Didn’t say it would be easy, though.

Now mix pinks, blues, ochres for her face.

Mauves and purples too if you wish.

A touch of plum for shadows. Take the risk.

Don’t fret, it will be fine. You’ll see.

You want to make her shudder like a ghost,

   like a woman delivered from the North Atlantic,

   like Mary when she watched Jesus die.

Great! That’s the way.

Don’t replicate what you see;

   Reveal how you feel.

Her hair must be young and soft, but not new.

From the past, sometime.

   Say, the 1990s.

Her eyes must be strong like the ’40s,

   Wild like the ’60s.

Exploring eyes.

Her nose, let’s see …

Not large, not delicate.

Just enough to pull her face together.

Be sure to paint an easy smile. Your audience will like that.

Happy faces make them happy.

But don’t overdo it:

   Leave a smidge of desperation around her mouth.

Full lips. Everyone likes full lips. Her mouth can taste what’s new.

Yes, that’s it!

A simple chain around her neck,

A stone the same color as her eyes. Green, I think.

Maybe a small relic from the past

   she can’t fully forget.

Her open blouse teasing … not slutty, not prude.

There!

Something for everyone. Everything for someone.

Leave nothing for no one.

Are you finished yet?

© Gary P English 2022

Originally published in Home Planet News, Issue #10, November 2022

Her Viking ship cradles her, anticipates flaming arrows. I linger

beside her: Her quest to become an angel haunting

like demons. An organ’s tinny notes summon me;

I leave the longship blaze. Friends allege:

She’ll be an angel now. Empty

words I know aren’t true.

Angels can’t fly from

wildfire so eternal:

ashes imprison

ashes.

© Gary English 2022

Originally published in Home Planet News, Issue #10, November 2022