forty-five seconds

8/13/2019 Forty-Five Seconds

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ory- ive SecondsA chapbook of selected poems by Joschua Beres


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FORTY-FIVE SEO!"S# A $A%BOO&

' ()*+ by Joschua Beres,

ISB!# ./-)-*011-)-.

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations embodied in a critical newspaper, magazine, radio,internet or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means,electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and

retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Author or Publisher. or informationaddress !ydonia "roup Press, #$$ %thAvenue, &uit '(#%), *ew +ork, *+ ---.

!ydonia "roup Press eb &ite/http/00www.cydoniagrouppress.com

1oschua 2eres eb &ite/ http/00ww.3oschuaberes.com

Th2rtee3th So3 %ress a3 2mpr23t of ydo32a 4roup %ress

rontispiece art/ Candle Clockby 2etsy A. !utler

4esign by 1oschua 2eres
http://www.cydoniagrouppress.com/http://www.cydoniagrouppress.com/http://www.cydoniagrouppress.com/


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Dedicated to you.


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A !OTE TO T$E REA"ER

5his chapbook contains a brief selection of my poems. &ome of them 6 have revised off andon for years, but if 6 went on revising everything that 6 have written, 6 would have no time

to write new poems or stories. 5hese poems with all their crudities, doubts and confusions,are me and are written in the hope that something of myself will survive past my earthy

existence and the cruelty of time.

JOS$5A BERES&an 7arcos, 5exas

December 2013


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I!65"E" 7OR&S

spontaneously combusting at the wonder of it all

my childhood was always avoiding landmines

I dream sometimes of sending the moon back in pieces

conversation with a mirror

1,3

sun!fed stone

under the orange tree

the cult of democracy

love without

we should all live like the atomic bomb


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ory- ive SecondsA chapbook of selected poems by Joschua Beres


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spo3ta3eously combust238 at the 9o3der of 2t all

my childhood was hi3acked by planes and desert conflictsthe way my father8s childhood was a cold war in Asian 3ungles.

the only thing me and my father shared was fear9

and the sirens that told us to get under a deskhands over our headsbecause everyone wants to believethat surviving disaster is as easy as ducking for cover.

twenty(six years old now and 6 am a cell in a pathogenthat has been in mutation against itself for generations,consuming its host and shitting out 7c4onald:s wrappersand &tarbucks"

sometimes when 6 think too muchabout how 6 do too little for this world6 inhale deeply. several times.

sometimes 6 have to do that to keep fromspontaneously combusting at the wonder of it all.

we are ;-< water and we are ;).= degrees ahrenheit,get a good fever and that is close enough to boilingyou know, turning into steam.

we are all pretty close to being taken into the cloudsand being dumped over 7ontana in the mountains.

the same way nineteen terrorists,two thousand nine(hundred and ninety(seven ghosts

four planes and the weight of two warswere dumped over 5exasto rain on me and drown meof what little innocenceoriginal sin had allowed.


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my ch2ldhood 9as al9ays a:o2d238 la3d m23es

while the Army was testing artilleryin the hills of ort >ood at night,my home shook under the heavy handshakeof thick verbal violence of my father

and it was bright.

bright. as. hell.

his hands had a way of punchinga solar system of moon craters into me.craters 6 am still trying to fill.

6 sent prayers to "od like buckshot,while he was sitting up thereon his fancy cloud porch,6 was shooting and howling for his attentionbut he was en3oying the sunset.

my childhood was always avoidingland mines. and 6 was battle wearybefore 6 ever became a soldier.

it has been yearsand sometimes my memoriesmake me feel like 4resdenand it is ebruary ?th, ;$%.

and 6 often find myself wonderingif my father ever feels pity for melike 6 do for him.

we are one and the same after(all.


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I dream somet2mes of se3d238 the ;oo3 back 23 p2eces

6 remember sifting our thoughtsthrough our teeth at nightfilling thirsty, eager earswith the essence of each otheruntil 7idnight found my tonguetripping on the 3azz of your flesh.

you had a rabbit heart then,before the >eroin, beforeour love became six(feet deep.6 have spent every waking momentracing as far from your memoryas possiblebut years are far (further than 6 go,and 6 think this marathon is over.

there are astronauts still waiting to meet somebodyway out therespeaking in &putnik radio transmission lingobouncing their electronic morse code out to *eptunebeckoning the 7othership to get hereand get here @6!BC

somewhere, 1ackie Bennedy can8t forgive herselfso she dreams of chopping her tongue offgiving it to the &alvation Armyso nobody will ever knowthat the !ity of 4allas warned herD4. *5. !7E. >E'E.F

they say when we sleepwe are students of the dream.we are teachers of the dream.

6 dream sometimesof sending the 7oon back in piecesto reverse the tides3ust for 5>A5 year.

to meet 1ohn !oltranewhen 6 meet your lips with mine.

but time has become a 'orschach testsometimes 6 see you flexing your heartswallowing everything around you likea black hole, taking my ability to love with you.

sometimes 6 don8t see you.

sometimes "ravity is getting strongertoo strong.

soon my sanity is going to crash downlike a five thousand pound bombwith the urgency of napalm.

soon 6 am going to unbind the gravityyou have on me from six feet downso 6 can breath in &pace


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3ust once.

and who knows ( maybe 6 will get caughtfor forty years and an eternityin the vast wilderness of 5esla8s dream.

perhaps, it is too late for mebecause a long time ago6 was buried with you too.


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co3:ersat2o3 92th a m2rror

my thoughts are mad dogs here.frustrated, 6 pace between the hourssnacking on the bitter, stale tartof half(forgotten dreams.

6 am a wake for the living.woefully mourning the 7orning:s birth/the dawn of an endless cycleof moving, eating, talking,of being fucked and fucking over,of loving, hating, agingwhile all the while pushing forwardtowards something. someone.anything to augmentmy refracted sense of self,of import. of purpose.

but who is this 6 behind the 6my eyes see staring back at meGwhat does your mockingtoothpaste splattered surface reflectGwhat is insideG orwhat the world has made meGwhat then, can eyes reflectGcan:t perception defy the mindG

faulty logic bridges unsteady thoughts.

wake up#the mystics say.there is a piece of $od inside us all#

somewhere, hiding like some prizeat the bottom of a box of cracker 3ack:s.

so, here 6 stand, ready before you.tired. desperate handsgripping the sink:s edge waitingto catch an imperfect glance of "od.or the perception of it.

another hour crossed. 6 chuckle.perhaps the lighting is bad.


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*


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su3-fed sto3e

your constant resurrection mocks our mortality.your primordial dance is mimickedby the homeless Jietnam herodrowning in the brown tar river of heroinbefore he nods off, with holy arms,into the ecstasy of blackness and drool9escaping deeds made medals, and like you,the bombastic suburban smug of day.

like him, we have declared you mad,the instigator of misfortune. gelidly confinedto the asylum of space for your hysteria (without even a crust of bread to hold you,or water to free your parched lips to speak.

but if 6 were the ocean, on the tiptoes of waves6 would rise to greet you like some mystic,

bash open your skull, and suck outits sagKd wisdom. so laconicit would tongue(tie >erodotus and Plutarchholocaust their envy, and reduce them to ashes.

oh, silent chronicler of manCyou have seen us sludge from vapid oozeto stand the humane destroyers of worldsCgreat cities have shined in your mimetic light,and have disappeared in the brilliantatomic flash bang of the synthetic sunswe have employed to shock(treat dazzle you.

you have known every god,and thought yourself a god of omens.how it must birth(pain youto see some among men rise to gods/as they are worshiped for their money.

you smiled when Adam criedat the beauty of Eve9and have laughed ( toe tapping, knee slapping,at the comedy of our collective cannibalism.

you fancy that your face has beenthe envy of constellations, who have broken planets

and hurled them at you in their anger.but it is said that you are 3ust an addictto the tragedy of man. a delusional star,frozen in sun(fed stone.in reply, you hold up a mirror.

and as we have tumbled, stumbleddrunkenly forward with our blind faithand our 3udging, selfish hearts full of selfless loveto manifest the destiny of our future,we have sent you a bouquet of astronauts and starships9caressed your pale cheek, and overnighttransformed you to into >elen.

the conquered prize of our !old ar.

but there on high you sit confined and smilebecause long after you have been claimed,


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long after our corporations havebent to their knees to drink from your lapand, fingering your pleasures, leave you,abandoned like some wadded(up whore on the Eastside (our labs and empty buildings,cobwebbed in your lunar dust,shall keep you company.and you will wear our waste and ruinslike 3ewels and dance. while your barren motherthe earth, long divorced by humanity,looks on, empty and cancerous,from across the distant gloom.


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u3der the ora38e tree

her eyes were once the dance ofquasars and nebulaeas they always are for the young and in love.the enchanting wonderthat telescopes the hearts of men.but they have become frigid today.the scene of an ugly plane crash in the Andes (the kind where people eat each other.

6 ask her how she is doing.she fumblesand in that brief lacuna of wordsher answer is a lifetime longbecause she is the fall of the 2erlin all9and the end of the !old ar9and the rise of the 6nternet9and the summer day when the towers fell.

and she is still in love.

when she talked about dadher lips would quiverlike a dam about to burst.she would lean against the sink edgeand stare down the drainand tears would crack her face wide open.

when 6 was tenshe took me out to the garageand we pulled out all the boxes labeled LPhilipL

and brought them underneath the orange tree.

the same orange tree that has kept me small foreverand weighed us down with oranges every summerand drowned the housein the perfume of orange blossoms.

mom sat with me under the treeand told me the story of her and dadin a voice like a pulsar windshe said/

I was eleven and he was twelve"

we were both in love"we would meet by the beach and go swimmingand I taught him to danceawkwardly to %adonna and &'C"

when I was eighteen and he was nineteenhe read Dylan &homas to meand we made love, and it hurt"

but the towers felland the (ar called himas it called many young menand he became lost in the ma)e of the *fghan mountains

for a year"

she handed me a letter she had written to dadbut never sent.


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it read/

on the day you left, as I held you,I tried to keep my tears behind my eyelids"but I felt like the moonand you were the oceans of the earthand I ached to break my orbit and comecrashing down into youand free)e under your churning"and, if you wantedI would drownand I think I would be + with that"

but such a goodbye would have provedas selfish as the stormthat tried to steal $alveston-s beauty from the sun"

our talking was interrupted by the megaphone voice./departing/"your plane was boardingfor the other side of the world"departing illeenfor Dallasfor *tlantafor Irelandfor the (ar"

6 paused from reading to look up at herbut her eyes were silent.6 read on/

five hours laterI was back home on the bay"I fell asleep

but when I woke upI was listening to the mad hurricanes in my chestbreaking their hearts against my ribsover and over,every few seconds !as if I were the Cape of $ood ope"

I ached to let the hurricanes out of my chestand let them roll inlandso they could wash both of us away"over the warm golden streetlight fu)) of *ustinto the tall grasses of +klahoma"to bring the swells of the $ulf

to the silent %idwest"

but instead,they ust broke against my bonesand I spit my worries over the cliffs"

why am I always where you aren-t

when 6 put the letter downshe continued/

the (ar went on" epanded"stories of the young and dead

flooded the paper"

but when I was nineteenhe came home for 454


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and I drove to the airport in ouston to see him"I told him I was in love with him"that night we danced awkwardlyand made loveand you blossomed like this orange treeinside me"

one month home and si months backbefore they sent him back to me"we married" I moved to 6ort oodand we rented an apartment"nothing more than a dusty room"we slept on a tiny bedand he would sing to youas you slept in my belly"

not long after you were born,we drove down to our sun!kissed $alvestonand bought this houseand it was not long after thatthat he got called back"

back to the mountains and the mortar fire"to the nameless villages and I7Ds"but it was one phone callthat informed mehe would never come back to us"

and that is when the lightbulbs in my heartshattered to sand"

she sighedand leaned on the tree as she stood up.patting it once she slowly walked inside.

6 kept sifting through her 3ournalsand brittle Polaroidsthat 6 dug out of taped up boxes.

letters written in high schoolbetween her and dad that she savedto feel close to him.all buried in the safety of his old shirts.

they were the deepest boxes in the world.they had to be (to fit their kind of love.

a lifetime of loving someone.a lifetime of being lovedbecomes boxes and tapeto be remembered on rainy daysor discovered under an orange tree.

there were hundreds of lettersso many,that all the messenger pigeons in the worldwould have been filling the skies.so many lettersthat mom was still lost in them

in the years since he died.

sometimes, on &unday afternoons,mom and 6 would take walks.


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long walks , to nowhere in particular,like her and dad used to do.it was the only time when her eyes would go supernovaand somewhere inside,a room full of lightbulbs would fliton and offfor a few seconds.

and it was then,that my dad would stop being words on a page,a folded flag in a wooden caseand pictures. it was thenthat 6 would see himand a thousand stars would light my eyes.


20/27

the cult of "emocracy

there is a longing for salvationin e, the guilty.the self(proclaimed innocents.

but imperialism:s imperative scathes us.

we, the dirt, even in revolution (desires awry/ we force, we maim,and yes, we kill (but for the realization ofour prophet 4emocracy.peace be upon her.

she is our body, our collective.

in our civil wars and world warswe have searched and search still in

!ulture:s purgative rhetoricfor her meaning as our machinesrepetitively wilt us,molt us, prod us, towardsthe stupor, the haze of catharsis.

we dig mass racial graveson economic bargain,and social and religious ones too Mevery body should be counted.

we crucify and dismember ourselvesfor 4emocracy,

she weeps salvation for us,the poor, the tired masses.yearning and huddledour litany becomes tongue(stuckand word(full at the wonder of it all.

but her ears catch empty.

she scampers to free herselffrom the yoke of our capitalistic theocracybut we language her soulinto corporate personhood.

the demonic mnemonic habits of men alwaysalways repeat.

harmonic hysteric mysticsas Eleusis lucidly remembersfuture descent into death,forgetful father "od turns awayfrom the rail of corpses.his challenger, 4emocracy,becomes open woundsand protruding bonesto litter occupied streets.

the bedrooms of housesturned in by childrenthe shattered girls left in stairwellscall out to >67 for comfort,


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not her.

but we, humankind, always makegood attempts to patch, to hide,to sweep under our historythe stale crumbs of our failed attemptsto summon her by sacrifice.

"od, for his part, notices nothingand forgives us, his rebellious children,everything.


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9e should all l2:e l2ke the atom2c bombthe bomb over >iroshimatook forty(five seconds to falluntil/ flash. bang. pop.

maybe that helps you realizethe importance of forty(five secondsbecause even if that bomb fellfor forty(five years, it wouldn8t beenough time.

but in one millionth of a second.modern American sciencecan birth a second sun 3ust long enoughto prove that popcorn never lasts past the previews.lovers clothes never come off fast enough.kites will never take you to the moon.and doctors will always say its !ancer.

we should live like an atom bombshaking our souls into thunder cloudssinging electric hallelu3ah praises.

because in the cosmic endall we really haveare those forty(five seconds.


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Ack3o9led8me3ts

=spo3ta3eously combust238 at the 9o3der of 2t all>'iterary +rphansN-0#-$O

=I dream somet2mes of se3d238 the moo3 back 23 p2eces>'iterary +rphansN-0#-$O

=su3-fed sto3e>(alking Is 8till onest 9ressN-#0#-$ODu3der the ora38e treeF:ohemia 'iterary and *rt ;ournal N-H0#-#O

Dthe cult of "emocracyF


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ABO5T T$E A5T$OR

1oschua 2eres Nborn ;)HO is a 5exas native of Iouisiana rench(!reole, 6rish, rench(!anadianand "erman ancestry. >e has previously been published in:ohemia 'iterary and *rt ;ournal,7very Day 6iction,'iterary +rphansand has work included in the anthology%ilk and oney8iren. 1oschua likes rock climbing, hiking, flying and 3umping out of planes 3ust to make sure hisadrenaline gland is still functioning. >e is also good at being both awesome and incredibly cool (and is the most modest guy you will evermeet. >is website is viewable at http/003oschuaberes.com.


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forty-five seconds

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