Tuesday, November 19, 2013

First Amendment

Dedicated to all of Balaam's Asses
wherever they may roam...

Living near the naval base,
she gets to sit in her courtyard...
sipping her coffee each morning,
and listen to the “Star-spangled
Banner.” All these years later
it still moves her.

She is proud to be American,
as others are proud of their
countries, even with cultures
mottled with bloody histories,
imperialism, geno…

He slurs his good mornings
and disturbs her conflicted
patriotism for an instant, and
then he is gone. She is both proud
and repulsed because even idiots
have the right to garble their opinions.

He shakes his fist at the woman
“what done him wrong” – never
having recovered from his wounds,
his heart black as the bruises from his whip,

his mind as victimized as Balaam’s ass.
“Why do you hurt me? Haven’t I been
a good and faithful  [husband]? ”

Bitch, please.

The cops told her that he is insane, but
not a danger. He is only spewing his angry
incoherencies; there is no crime

being committed.

Of course there isn’t.

She finishes her coffee as the ass
goes running into the street screaming
his “truth”,

and the trumpets stop playing.


~By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~ 

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Standing Behind Her Jab























The pugilist repulses the fan
with his cauliflower ear,
and flattened nose from
too many blows, even
as she  poses
to have her picture
taken with the champ.
Her thick, black-rimmed
glasses and professional
attire defy the avid
spectator’s bloodlust,
and the fighter who
lies beneath her pink
camisole.

~Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~



Thursday, November 14, 2013

Lily


Minimalism appeals to the
neat-freak in me.
I like my world orderly,
and my ribs not-too-spare.

So it is with awe that
I watch my old girl
work every last piece
of meat off that humble bone.
She ravages it with grace.

There is graying around
her eyes, and she is
hard of hearing these days.
I’ve read that dogs also
get dementia.

How easily she slips in
and out of sleep these
days, how slow her gait.
But I will wait until she tells
me it’s time to go,
and with no regrets
I will let her.

I will have her cremated
and her ashes scattered
at sea where I can visit
her at my favorite place,
the unpredictable sea, with
the healing waves crashing
all around me, constant as
her erratic heartbeat.
 
Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb


Sunday, November 10, 2013



















Bas Relief

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Sweltering July heat,
foul moods, and the cats
are lazy.
Your presence here adds
to the discomfort.
Nothing that a good
downpour
wouldn't help.
Watermelon summers,
being barefoot at the lake,
and picnics with laughing
children are sepia
memories,
disappearing like sweat
beads
from a strong gust of wind.
The pages of this book grunt
apathetically,
and the stillness of time
is stifling.
Where is God? and
why won't you leave
me alone?
In that very moment
when I find silence,
a horse fly buzzes by,
suicidally,
and I instinctually grab
my book and
SWAT! it.
The analogy works well,
and, at last,
I smile.




Saturday, November 9, 2013

Under the Bus by Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb























You silly boy.

Graying at the temples
and still you mope
over the water
under that bridge.

Our friends say
you’re not yourself
these days, that
you seem small,
fragile.

In spite of your, well,
spite, I believe them.

Your words spew
out of you like a
screaming tea kettle,
insistent, and then
easily put aside.

Compassionate people
care about those who
are hurting, and I’d like
to think that I am, you
know, compassionate.

I'm remembering vividly
that one scene, after
she hurls Burke down
the stairs, turns her head
around an entire revolution
and then giggles.

Yes, with a shit eating
grin, I remember.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Warning: Caustic Cautionary Tale


Five to Life

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Prison is your
drink of choice.
Lap it up, like
a dying drunk,
cirrhotic and
stupid,
brain cells dead
as toes tagged
in morgues,
cold and blue.
Five years have
passed,
and still you
lick the festering
wound,
bacteria swirling
in your saliva,
infection
resurrected
each year,
as your heart
lies rotting
in your
hands.

Monday, November 4, 2013

Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb's "The Absence of Gravity"

 

The Absence of Gravity


By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

Vitriol lies impotent
on the floor of the
well-calcified.

While sticks and stones
play patty whack
on the ungirded
loins of whimpering

boys.