Five poems by Paul Perry

no damn yankee
 
yeah,
i’m an Yankee
but at home i listen to the Redondos,
loud
real loud,
and then i’ll put on some Sumo
and Charlie
and blend it in with a little Garcia of my own:
Jerry style.
 
yeah i´m a yankee,
and sometimes hit BK or Mickie Dees,
but at home call me porteño,
sparking up the parilla
and whipping up those asados and choris.
 
yeah i´m a yankee
and grew up drinking that Bud
but at home call me porteño
drinking that Quilmes ale
or uncorking a bottle of five peso Vasco Viejo.
 
yeah i.m a yankee,
and my Philly nostalgia sometimes comes along
but it’s this southern land
the place i call home. 
waiting on a train
 
it is raining
and it has been so for the past three days.
it is nearing noon and i wait at the station for a train that will not come.
the rain has caused turmoil in the city,
fallen trees,
flooded streets,
cars floating down wide avenues
broken umbrellas lying on the ground
like the bodies of those that walked the streets.
 
meanwhile i wait at the station.
the ticket guy has a small sign taped to the window of his little booth.
the sign reads:
“servicio suspendido por vias inundadas”
his face reveals the obvious joy from not having to say
“no trains”
people stand around
mostly under the tin roof that covers a narrow part of the platform.
the wind blows hard and rain falls everywhere.
people walk up to the ticket booth
and ask the guy behind the glass what the problem is,
and the guy just points to the sign.
i stand at the entrance to a tunnel that crosses the tracks to the other side.
down the cement staircase i see nothing but water
brown,
flowing,
echoing among the once piss drenched walls,
it looks like an entrance to a dungeon.
i feel insane standing here alone,
i can not understand why no one else has thought about standing here.
far from the wind,
far from the rain,
far from the umbrellas and bad moods.
still the rain keeps coming down
and i am happy
cause i have found the perfect spot
to wait for the train
and tell you this.
 
a babe on the subway
 
she has the hottest legs
golden brown skin
a body that seems to have been truly molded by god himself
and she stands about 2 feet from where i sit
she is reading an instruction manual of some sort
and is wearing a short blue skirt and white high heel pumps.
her toes are perfectly proportioned so that every toe descends in perfection
and every now and then
she turns slightly to show me some more of what she has to offer some lucky shmuck.
 
i sit
trying to read my bukowski book
but i can not concentrate
(sorry charles)
meanwhile the subway gets more and more crowded
and so i lose sight of the only beautiful thing to look at down here.
 
she now stands behind a small mass of hanging bodies,
as suddenly, the seat next to me clears
and somehow,
as if out of a dream,
she appears from behind the wall of drawn fabric
and sits down by my side.
 
she sits next to me for a couple of stations
finally i get up the nerve to say something to her
i turn to her and say
“you got great legs.”
she gives me a strange look,
gets up
and walks away.
 
i never did know what to say to women.
 
 
Love this place
 
it’s sometimes a cold city
where people move in cold circles
where friendly smiles are easy to find but hard to take seriously
where streets are overcrowded with mirrored faces
where everyone wants to be something they are not
and deep done inside they hide from what they really are.
 
it’s sometimes a fake city
where the only national pride lies in the hands of the national soccer team.
where streets are wrapped in an imaginary setting
where women act highly important and men think they’re twice as much
where happy hour is a growing trend
but people don’t know how to drink
so they double up on coffee.
 
it’s sometimes a sad city
where people cry on the daily news
where workers in the public sector go months without a paycheck
where innocent people are shot on the street everyday and the cops are doing the shooting
where millions don’t know how to vote
cause each candidate is worse than the other.
 
it’s sometimes a strange city
where the winters are hot and the summers are cold
where people put plastic bottles full of water to stop dogs from peeing on their trees
where subways crash head on then they raise the price of the fare
where common sense doesn’t go a long way
and stupidity awaits with every passing step.
 
it’s sometimes a happy city
where I’m free to sit here and write
where beer and whiskey are cheap to get and on sale everywhere.
where I got a job that I get paid for not doing most of the time.
where I found a cool beautiful chick
that can’t cook
but brings home a paycheck..
 
 
 
towards
 
insanity.
an unavoidable march toward death.
a solution for madness.
an excuse for loneliness.
a way out
a way in
a way around
a way to the top
a ride to the bottom.
call it what it you may,
it does not matter.
the clock stops ticking but time goes on.
the days run out
the booze runs out
your woman runs out,
your money disappears
and you don’t question why.
it does not matter.
still your days are always dark
and your nights always bright.
there are those who may consider nights spent in this way pathetic.
but what must be discovered is how nights
alone,
drunk,
confused,
sometimes relaxed,
sometimes depressed,
you can enjoy the freedom of a dull and rich insanity.
I’m just going to sit here…
miles away from a clear thought
hours away from a nights sleep
minutes away from a clear objective
steps away from the first drink.