My Bullet
it follows me wherever i go
reading on the toilet
shopping at Walmart
walking around Six Flags
or watching a movie
at the local cinema plex
it has learned
to say my name
it wants to be friends
i hold it in my hand
rub it between thumb
and forefinger while
a stream of dread pumps
through my veins
it’s pointed tip presses
into the palm of my hand
i envision how it
will pierce my flesh and
ricochet off my bones
only to exit a shredded mess
as i bleed out for a
30 second spot on the
6 o’clock news
i throw it out the window
as i drive past dairy farms
and fields of summer corn
knowing that when it finds me
there will be hell to pay
Trickle This
it’s a tuesday afternoon
there are four or five people seated inside
eating or waiting for their order
one man is working the grill
the deep fryer and taking orders
at the register all at once
he’s got the routine down
slapping raw patties on the sizzling grill
dropping a basket of fries into lava
hot cooking oil
his cool concentration reminding me
of Kobe demanding the ball whenever
the team was down by 3 with a few seconds
left on the clock
people keep coming thru the door
at a steady pace and now i realize
he’s also preparing online orders
working the register
grilling the meat
bagging the fries
making a shake
he is an artist
a fast-food Picasso
lost in the spell
of frenzied creation
the burger is juicy
grease drips down my wrist
it must be held a certain way
or it falls apart with each bite
my fries are crispy and salty
still hot to the touch
unlike the sad alternative
served by you-know-who
this is the real economy
forget Wall Street’s smoke and mirrors:
we show up everyday
give it our best shot
with one arm
tied behind
our back
60,000 Dead
it’s a tragic number but doesn’t hit home
until i remember what it feels like
to be with that many
fellow humans in one place
buying cold beer
hot dogs and peanuts
sitting in the warm September sun
at the L.A. Coliseum
cheering for our team
giving high fives all around
to perfect strangers sharing a
moment of joy when our
team did something
spectacular and glorious
the postgame din and chatter
would be upbeat if we won
walking to our cars with
voices hoarse and strained
or the mood subdued
all of us simmering in
the sour juices of a loss
blamed on refs who were
blind as mice
this is how i relate
to a death count of 60,000
going into the stadium
with a raucous and lively crowd
none of us walking out alive
except now someone on t.v.
would pat himself on the back
tell us how it could
have been worse
Bio: Richard Vargas earned his B.A. at Cal State University, Long Beach, where he studied under Gerald Locklin, Dora Polk, and Richard Lee. He edited/published five issues of The Tequila Review, 1978-1980, and twelve issues of The MasTequila Review from 2010-2015. Vargas received his MFA in Creative Writing from the University of New Mexico, 2010. He was recipient of the 2011 Taos Summer Writers’ Conference Hispanic Writer Award. He was on the faculties of the 2012 10th National Latino Writers Conference and the 2015 Taos Summer Writers’ Conference. Published collections: McLife, 2005; American Jesus, 2007; Guernica, revisited, 2014; How A Civilization Begins, MouthFeel Press, Summer 2022, and a fifth book to be published in 2023. He currently resides in Wisconsin, near the lake where Otis Redding’s plane crashed.
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