I left the reading early last night because I couldn’t take any more

of the self-professed confessional poet. Something about feelings so contained

scares me.

Tonight over Twitter, I found out one of my former students

killed himself. They say he seemed happy.

My daughter is taking a bath before bed. She dunks her Ariel doll’s head saying,

“She can breathe on land or underwater because she has gills AND lungs.”

Kim wasn’t really that bad.

Except she overstressed every other syllable

commanding them to behave the way

they were probably forced to sound

at all her readings.

While I brushed Maya’s teeth a few months ago she asked,

“Daddy, would you rather have a million dollars

or have a telescope that can see God?”

I’d forgotten about that question until tonight. Is it wrong that I still don’t have an answer?

If only you were part teenager part Merman, Anthony.

That way you could hold your breath or breathe underwater

until everything was okay,

and your feelings

didn’t scare you anymore.

© Daniel Romo, 2010

[others]

So mean I couldn’t tell
he only did it one month a year.

Waiting for my transfer to the 94
on my way to junior college,
I walked up to his red pot,
nodded,
and dropped in
thirty-seven cents.

The stoic man with fake beard
like bootleg cotton candy,
looked me up and down
and the second person retort
went,
“You cheap mother fucker…”
And I stopped believing in Santa.

© Daniel Romo, 2010

[others]

The grizzly, lazy-eyed
sidewalk strummer
fingering linear chords
like a lost virtuoso
looked up to greet me,
as I eased inside past
the local university boys
(sporting the same haircut
displaying different shades of plaid)
to a worn, orange, recliner.

Narrow girls
with lifeless hair
crossed tapered denim legs
on wicker chairs
waiting for boyfriends
to belt out blasé songs
from their indie bands
with commercial names.
I sat, glad snapping is passé.
Sentiments stemming from my
Latino lineage—

Dad’s machismo explained:
his calloused thumbs,
my propensity for double entendres,
and Mom’s friend who visited
late-night while he was away.

Though I’m a jr.,
I didn’t inherit his ways.

I just wanted to sign the sheet.
Read my meager poems,
hoping one of the narrow girls
would notice and say,
“Damn. That was good…”

© Daniel Romo, 2010

[others]