Good morning, Albuquerque! Rich Boucher here, psychiatrist, jet astronaut and DitchRider Guest Leatheratrix for the month of June. This surely has been a fun ride thus far, and I feel quite proud to have helped Jon keep this thing rocking. So tell me: do you like poetry? Do you like Doritos? How about raspberries? I like all of those things.
I bring these things up because here's another thing I like, the work of Greg Candela - will you follow along with me?....
Gregory L. Candela is a professor emeritus at University of New Mexico where he taught creative writing, literature, theatre, technical writing and composition. He has published scholarlly essays on African American and American literature (e.g. in The Dictionary of Literary Biography and American Literature). He published a book of poems Surfing New Mexico (Crones Unlimited, 2001). Recent publications include poems in the Harwood Anthology, Conceptions Southwest, Adobe Walls, Malpais Review, Sin Fronteras and Italian Americana. In addition, he was a book reviewer (Southwest Book Views) and has authored six produced plays including El Mozo Regresa: The Kid Returns for KUNM's "Radio Theatre." Candela is an actor, director and a performing musician. He has traveled throughout Mexico over the past 40 years.
NEW MEXICO DAWN
After a fitful night of dark dreams,
the sun burned through the small
cupped fingers of my venetian blinds.
I yanked them up and knew
the luridness of clouds—red
orange, bruised purple—against
a nearly white, light-blue sky.
I knew the scene meant something
looked hard at ephemera that
would brook no review in any
Neanderthal’s or my life’s time
though his procanthic jaw would
have dropped farther than mine
because he had less science.
The cloudbank broke over the
Manzanos a dirty surf the foggy
morning after a drunken storm
staggered ashore, collapsed on
a grainy sand crack between
illuminated, garish yellow, black
electric edges, the sort of dawn
from which poets drag epiphany.
Yes. I had walked out on mother
church because I could not
abide that hoary, muscular sky
god fallen, after humping
mother earth six consecutive days
snoring, sonorously, as I attended
mass after enumerating my lewdnesses
to another guy called father who may
not have been a celibate. On bony
knees, on rosary beads, I counted Hail
Marys then tongued Jesus down my
throat. What has an inexplicable Catholic
adolescence to do with an inchoate dawn?
I don’t know . . . but both are gone.
Poetry submissions are welcome. Email firstname.lastname@example.org.