WILLIAM C. BLOME - POEMS

William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Amarillo Bay, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.

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                        I ASKED MY YOUNG SON
 

I don’t expect an answer anytime soon,
but I asked my young son why it had been
so drop-dead easy for me to fall in love
with a girl I caught searching the internet
for the best glue anyone could use
to put fallen leaves back on their original
branches, and I had confided in his tight
little ass that I hoped the glue she settled on
would work equally well to pin me
to my chair and thereby stop me cold
from straying somewhat south of here,
from homing toward an Australian widow
with thighs the size of a cylindrical mailbox,
a Canberran tart just reeking of jasmine
mashed with clover in equal measure.
 


          LOOKING FOR CHERRIES IN GUATEMALA
 
El Sombrerón: a cautionary bogeyman dressed almost entirely in black
 
I sent myself to Guatemala to look for swell bing cherries,
and while it’s true I did find several beauties,
 it became obvious as I was hopping near the Caribbean,
or strutting beside the Pacific, or stooping down
to futilely tongue the nation’s private parts in-between,
I had a greater chance of straying into a producing steel mill
than I had in rubbing up against a singleton fruit tree
or chalking up a bounty within a tidy orchard.
But I thought then and think now my cherries failure
had little or nothing to do with antagonizing
Guatemala’s natural guardians, spooks like the Spirit of the Corn,
though this pudding-soft girl I latched on to during my travels
loudly disagrees. She screams El Sombrerón has had me sighted
since my plane touched down at La Aurora International,
and that any urchin from the furnaces or fields
can foresee the day I’ll be drawing my last breath
mashed in-between her squishy, red-tipped breasts.
 

                         THE MIDDAY EXERTIONS
 

I watched a sweaty amazon
Lifting flyweights in full sunshine
On the roof of a savings bank. O
She did her curls and achieved her squats
In series of sixty-some repetitions
Before dropping whatever she was lifting,
Taking a gulp of spring water, and then
Moving on to something lighter weight.
Eventually it came to pass that a fingernail
Of newspaper replaced a sparrow feather,
And following that, my gleaming amazon
Stood back to watch big clouds drifting overhead
And to listen to cash transactions occurring
‘Neath her feet. Then she abruptly followed
My lead and swaggered onto the canopied
Escalator and rode down its countless metal
Steps to meet me by the tellers
(Where we were hooking up to go out
For a fishcake lunch with alcohol).
I felt obliged as I watched her descend
To yell up and ask if after all her midday exertions
She wouldn’t rather take a break
And shower down before we went to dine,
But she screamed back she’d far prefer
Relaxing in the here-and-now
With a dry Rob Roy, tilapia, and me.
 


                                   MY CRUELTY
 

I went into my hall closet for this one,
and I think I made it pretty well overall
(‘gave it lots of flourishes and paint and catamaran edges
along the rim), but in the long run, my cat won’t come home
no matter what I‘ve crafted for her as a bribe
to re-cross the hearth. Oh, I can put up a fair scrap and argue
that what with all the fucking coats and scarves
mashing in on me and cramping from every side and angle,
I had insufficient work space in the hall,
and therefore, important artistry got boxed out of my results,
I was denied aesthetical opportunity to decorate
and personalize my sincerity. Yet, beyond
this one occasion, my pet’s turned me down
paws-down before, and anyone of any demeanor
would have to suspect there’s something more at play here
than simply what I’ve shown. I mean, look:
just as some outrigger, untied and let loose in a storm,
might decide on its own to chart a weird and scrambled
course ‘neath nighttime Pacific skies,
so to I think my calico’s gotten wise beyond her pacing,
and now has opted out of bunking with my cruelty.
 

            ON SEEING A STAND OF TAN BAMBOO
               SURROUNDED BY GREEN LEAVES
 
‘You keep putting your hand down there,
and we’re going to be driving serpentine
between the pylons, though I think then
we’ll finally lose worrying over
whom your uncle left his silver moola to.
I kind of see the old fella dying prone and in his briefs,
and at an hour of the day we’ll not know much about,
except that he had the time to place a fluted copy
of his will inside a half-full syrup bottle.
But importantly, importantly, his widow at last
will get the chance to yank nonstop
on Juarez shepherds journeying to her daybed,
and if she surprises me and tires of that,
she’s gonna bury your pet pug alive
in soil where hardwoods grow wild and tall.