Embedded Files
The Man in the Black Bowler Hat
There’s a reason why Magritte’s man wears a black
bowler hat and has a green apple over his face.
We, the Public, need to imagine -
Is he: Happy? Petrified? Bored?
Need to imagine, because of the force field
between the apple and his expression.
That space, created before the Higgs particle,
indeed, before quarks, quivers with
the same clear glue that binds
atoms and molecules.
The man in the black bowler hat knows
if Otter Creek will overflow this year, if there’s
something worse than Japanese knot weed,
and the disappearance of orange chameleons or
the endless fires now burning.
We, the Public, go on killing for pleasure;
unaware that the bees have stopped dancing.
Back in caves, we sprayed dyed spit over our hands;
our message being: We were here!
Now, we are splitting atoms, writing poems with AI
and going splat on the moon.
Magritte’s man has no need for canary parables.
For all the bombs dropped, we’ve yet to discover
how to pull that green apple away, revealing
the infinite space beyond our impressive egos.
If the Man in the black bowler hat could speak,
he would say, “You, who thought Ganesh was
Lord of Good Fortunes, is actually Ganesh,
remover of Obstacles.”
Which is not good, when we discover
we are the biggest obstacles of all.
Nod to the man in the black bowler hat
whose expression is neutral as he waves;
we, The Oblivious Public, unaware
he’s waving Goodbye.
Olivia and White Eagle
White Eagle
coughing blood one morning sent me skittering
close to panic seeing the red spots appear as if from
one of those easter masks the very blood drops of christ
from where it is said flowers grew
until finally almost bursting i wandered away
on my own passing Frank’s Place on Pima Street seeing
citizens hunched inside over morning cups along with
hash browns, ham and eggs straight from the grill
as nearby crows fought brave finches for tortilla scraps
and me seeking sugar high at the donut shop where in shock
I saw my vanilla-scented, blonde anglo tutor
behind the counter, the one who’d explained numbers
theory to me Fibonacci and all that
when I was a kid on the pascua rez
what was she doing there changed into a tattooed
scarecrow with sad wrinkled eyes and new lines
on tight skin a hardness that said meth all over
who looked up saw me really saw me
put her hand over her mouth and I knew
she remembered those days by saguaro shadows
but just in case I held up both hands palms
toward her not knowing what she’d show
but not expecting the sobs and tears then she
took her break joined me behind the store’s
dumpster that night feeding me donut holes
as I reminded her about the rez all the stars
on moonlit desert nights
oh we were a pair White Eagle and Miss Olivia
getting high near the steel bin where she felt
my smooth skin until we quivered in night heat
some distance from my empty trailer until the end
when we came down in a pile of stained coffee cups
greasy cardboard cartons
then I remember who I was and cut
myself with loathing
sucked my own blood until I tasted copper
Olivia
how could it have been him the smart boy
from the yaqui rez standing before me astonished
staring at me astonished what else could I do
but take him with me behind the shop and now
as he bit himself I visualized portions
of the look-and-say sequence 1, 11, 21, 1211, 111221, 312211
then sighing trying to recall what it was about
the physical properties of gas that used to be
so exciting and wandering off dizzy and sick
at the way he looked me up and down
until I was on normal street you know the kind
with quiet homes where I wrangled my way
into some parked car on the yard side of a tall
oleander hedge but then morning brought out some dude
needing to get to work he found me knocked on the window
of his locked car Sorry i said and pushed the door wide
swung my legs around managing to sway myself erect,
hiccup, then walk past him right into those oleanders absorbed
by the primal force of a green wall
that unlike my usual circumstance
accepted me as neutral without scolding me
being judgmental
then off I walked east on pima
a mexican jay warning all of my approach
Burgess Needle’s short stories, essays and poems have appeared in over 100 print and online journals, including: English Journal, Boston Literary Magazine, Blue Lake Review, Black Market Review (UK), Kritya (India), Zig Zag Lit Mag and The Galway Review (Ire.).From 1967 to 1969 he taught English in a Thai village for the Peace Corps. He later worked as a school librarian for 40 years in Tucson. Publications include: Every Crow in the Blue Sky (poetry); Thai Comic Books (poetry); Faded Photo Bings It Back (poetry); Family Path (play); Sit and Cry: Two Years in the Land of Smiles (memoir); Staying Behind the Blue Car (poetry); Dreams of Istalif and Other Stories. He lives in Ripton, Vermont and is currently working on a novel.
Copyright © 2024 by Burgess, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author
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