Book Cover Image of Painkiller: Poems by Patricia Spears Jones

Painkiller: Poems
by Patricia Spears Jones

    Publication Date: Nov 30, 2010
    List Price: $15.95
    Format: Paperback, 76 pages
    Classification: Poetry
    ISBN13: 9781882688401
    Imprint: Tia Chucha
    Publisher: Tia Chucha Press
    Parent Company: Tia Chucha Press
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    Paperback Description:

    “Jones is a ‘poet’s poet,’ a true master. Here she shows is how a poet thinks about the everyday-ness of being alive and forges observation and perception into art.” —poetry editor Laura Baudo Sillerman

    Two Poems from Painkiller: Poems from Tia Chucha Press, November 2010. Distributed by Northwestern University Press.

    Painkiller

    I can taste the metal
    lose my desire for red meat

    relax, every muscle
    relax
    emotion
    relax
    the time of day
    I can give you
    the time of day

    What I talk about is how
    love eludes me
    No what I talk about is
    what’s wrong with me

    No what I talk about is
    what will happen to me

    Fear
    is the secret.
    Always fear.

    What you get from me is
    the edge of a trace of shadows
    and that’s all you’ll get

    I can’t give anymore
    I don’t want to
    Everything hurts

    This hurtle into living space
    and that swift slide out of it.

    You want secrets
    I say every reckless act
    results from a moment of fear.
    While compassion is the simple recognition

    That what is done cannot be undone,
    may not be forgiven.

    And a recognition that the murderer and the martyr
    the adulterer and the healer can at any moment
    change positions, become the other.

    It simply depends on how much pain
    You need to kill.

    Son Cubano

    We are at the genesis of a bolero
    eyes, lips, thick, kinky dreads
    beds, cars, stars

    a singer’s words curve
    through memory and shadow
    rhythms stumble and stop,
    come again, the night air a willing audience.

    men huddle near a long, brass bar rail,
    shoes gleaming, lips smiling, eyes lit
    as women, young and old, stroll pass them
    on their way to the powder room

    las mujeres motion a dream of sand and waves
    a Cuba that only the restaurant owner
    and his waiters may have truly seen, heard.

    late winter, rains slicking the streets of lower Manhattan,
    Son Cubano’s portals reveal a theater of nostalgia
    the scent of Havana scripts so well.

    And we play along
    mouths flavored with rum, lime, sugar, our tongues playing
    the kisses stolen game as the song phrases
    a fierce sadness promised
    in the wake of lust’s mercurial ascent

    We flee these orchestrated memories
    our hands in each others, our mouths hungry for each other.

    Our song is bluer, harsher, North American
    the rhythms African, yes, as dearly measured in drama and depth.

    Our exile is internal. There is little longing
    for the good old days when Havana was a mean place
    for dark people, but a real fascination
    for these songs and their makers.

    Your arms cascade a trumpet solo, the piano’s
    harmonics thrill my back.
    My lips are waiting for yours.

    This is our bolero
    accidental
    lovemaking Friday night New York City
    Everybody’s exotic.

    Everybody’s from the South.

     




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