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Home » Poetry » Issue 3 » Friday Shall Come

Friday Shall Come

Adios, ramshackles of purring:
Oils, files and greases…adios,
Bienvenida Friday! The quench of soco beats,
Kissing the rough of rum, making love to my feats,
I say; Hello Velveteen eyes,
Mottled hair shining like a pampas of quicksilver,

I dream, upon that stool with laden heart,
To drown thine spirit, soul and mind to part.

Mine is not this world if at all told,
And yet when told, of old is the song,
Of packing bullets to the hills,
In sly fumes and whizzing engines,
When the morning mush sprouts like a newlywed,
A whirring machine clad in spotted green,
Puffs the air with binding calamity,
With courageous flinch, it parts the wind,
My Friday shall come!

On a sunned Monday with smile and glimmer,
Beneath a light that blooms and fades, blooms and fades,
The laconic man with the filthiest hair,
Canes my patience like a vile dance,
Behind the rut of files in a parapet wall,
A ghost woman wields me, spice and herd made of Adam’s apple,
Naked Eve under the maple,
Friday shall come!

Then Avtomat Kalashnikova visits,
A long week but sly, and brittle.
Also grisly smiles of oils and paints,
In the quiet persistence of my love,
But still the padding desperation of my longing,
For Friday that sweeps my feet,
Having no syllables adequate to cage,
The just ferocity of muzzled rage.

But alas, Friday comes and who says I’m black?
Mine is that white-only tavern barricaded like a haven,
Today Black is my skin, my heart is clear,
Dark is my color, by Jove I’m dear,
Between rum and dram, only one says,
Like sour, like sweet is its sound,
And not its taste is its pound,
Viva Libertad! A day it seems, night I deem?

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