JAMES E. MAGYARY

My name is James E. Magyary, born 12-26-57, born in Akron, Ohio. I live in the high desert of California. I was published in the "The Ink Pad", and the "Bohemian Scribe" by Neil Ray, in Cape Fear. I'm expecting two poems to be published in this upcoming Baroque Review, by Wendy Howe.

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Sober as a straight
line plotted on paper,
perfectly graphed
with a ruler,
to climb stairs
of squares
with a linear slope,
one can ascend success.

Step up the human pyramid;
foot to face,
shoulder by shoulder,
until green gumption
stuffs your wallet.

You'll have a tapped office
in a white mansion,
fresh flowers daily,
a red phone for calling blood,
a bland view of the Washington skyline,
enemies by the party-full
picturing paparazzi,
generals barking about the floor,
a plane with machine-gun stewards,
a little button for mushroom clouds,
a lady that is First,
and sores in the stomach
that turn stools scarlet.

America's history books will beam,
as well your own surely will,
about your turn at the throne.
Top-Runger!
But all that memory may yield
in still corners of your library
are bloated grapes
landing
in the common vineyard;
the regain of gravity
mouth first.

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SUNDAY'S OFFER

A pull of rope,
a yank from the collared man
clangs for church;
appeals from the pulpit
ring ears this early.

Time to dress from the mess;
string shoes in tangled loops,
bolt the buttons,
snare the zipper on the fly.

I, Chicken, strut zig-zag
across the street; why?
The holy rolled road

has smeared my aim over asphalt
Saturday night's wrath hangs
high as heaven too.
I slip into a pew.

Father Jack takes off
friendly features,
straps on a sacred mask,
crucifies the crucible
with a cheap port wine;
the chalice's a snifter
for this charitable drifter,
smashed
stained glass
bleeds rainbows to eyes.

Gold calls from a cross.
But Christ!

I must confess
the only refuge
from yellowing radiation
is inside your prismatic palace
on these Sunday mornings.

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BALDY

" Do not go gently into the Night,
rage, RAGE, at the dying of the Light."
-Dylan Thomas

Dawn opens her mouth
wide to the sinking moon,
gulps the lunar pill
in a struggle for health,
then hurls up the sun.

The shriek
of the rooster
lets us know Baldy
will soon stomp her way
to showers.

The kids and I
used to cock ears
at echo-laced songs
rising within the mist.
Now we shock stiff
at the resonant growls
draining there.

Years ago, a lone
grey hair started it all,
her first alarm of mortality.
It was soon followed
by a brush fire of ivory,
as her eyes then
wandered off in the smoke.

Her bones rusted rigid
and the pills made her frigid.
Radiation is to blame;
her dove feathers sloughed off,
became pillow down. That's when
Baldy arrived.

What sticks most obtuse
is jabbed in our ears.
Screams so pointedly vile,
I imagine legions of
cockroaches stream out
from her spittled horn.

Her temper has shortened
with the heights of cancer,
a growth black and bulbous,
oozing under the door
to shape a sinister Sand Man
over our children's beds.

Mornings,
we duck by Baldy in the hall;
a tip-toe past the heave-hoe,
whom we all used to call Mom.

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TWIN TWILIGHTS

A leathered man creaks
upon porch and pedestal.
His corn kernelled grin
gleams in yellow hello.

A weathered lady speaks
with lyrical waves of lace.
She traipses through woods
picking songs from her hair.

At the final sparkle of sundown,
the two toast with daisy wines,
then shed skins and crawl
into warm spoons of slumber.

--------

LANGUID SUD'S SONG

My city chugs me,
slugs me, drunken pokey;
this tick-tock dangled,
slow-hand strangled,
suffocating jangled
life oozes to stillness.

Like fallen leaves
blown across
cracked sidewalks,
words are worn
weathered talks,
to the last that listens, to
myself: myself.
My words slide to wind,
fall from limbs,
swept in swirls away.

While the moon thrones
high upon her lemon
bell tower, dripping
light for sundown, I
fall to blackened ground;
my graveyard plot beats
a sordid drum...

and old metronomed day
slowly pours
into nods of night.

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STEEL PENNIES

Steel rain poured by pounds
from yellow thunders at dawn,
whistled a mad admiral's tune,
sonic spirals given to gravity,
a Navy's tragic song,
blowing holes for the Pacific
to drink ships with loose lips,
spent lives of soldiers,
steel pennies,
but pennies just the same.

"Never Forget" bled the journal ink.
"We'll make sure the nips
never do" piped Colonel Link.
From Albert to Teller to Oppey,
batons of uranium-loaded copper
were passed to Los Alamos.
Lincoln's face then shaded gray
as common cents were lost to
steel pennies,
pennies just the same.

A little boy became the second sun,
burnt 140,000 human beings
with lethal rays, 140,000
copper tans at Hell’s beach.
Enola Gay, steel eagle,
under the umbrella of pocked peace,
changed 200 million eyes to
steel pennies,
pennies all the same.

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PROPOSAL #14 (A LOVE POEM)

Look down at me honey, please.
Now give me your hand.
Please?
Thanks. Now I've written a poem for our special
occasion; it's called...
"When We Get Old Together".
Now please give me a chance this time,
just hear me out, hear me out. OK?
Good. Here we go:

WHEN WE GET OLD TOGETHER

I'll flay prunes to the shape of a moon,
carefully feed them to you with a spoon.
Dab drool off of your hairy chin,
then load the dishwasher for the spin.

Not too bad so far, right?
Glad you like it!

I'll bathe you with my tongue,
tell you how you look so young,
lick the wrinkles clean off your face,
and down your neckline, I will trace.

Throb your button on my way downs
till your horn blares out like a clown's,
at varicose veins, I won't stare,
I'll wipe your toes clean with my hair!
Come on, don't laugh, this is serious.

Brush one hundred strokes through your mane,
then read you poems of Sylvia's pain,
fluff your angels wings, understand?
then fly you upstairs like Peter Pan.

Gently lay you down in our bed,
while cradling your silvered head,
put your teeth into their jar,
sing you Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,
Now here comes the best part, listen...
why are you rolling your eyes? Listen!

I'll put away your hearing-aid, Dear
then shout I LOVE YOU in your ear,
finally kiss you goodnight, Sweet Pea,
Honey, won't you please PLEASE marry...

stop shaking your head no at me,
at least let me finish!...me?
Aww come on.
Darling, where are you going?

Damn it all anyway.

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HIS KIND (WITH A NOD TO ANNE SEXTON)

I have stayed in, a broken warlock,
breathing black smoke, smolder of night;
steaming evil, I have struck my clock
in midnight melees, fight by fight:
angry thing, three-fisted, with no mind.
A man like that is not a man, despite.
I have been his kind.

I have buried crosses in the basement,
along with novels, paintings, levels,
engine parts, rosaries, fractured cement;
made talk with hammers and electric devils:
whimpering, nailing down the assigned.
A man like that needs to be understood.
I have been his kind.

I have inhaled water in my tub, diver,
waved flailing arms as starved sparks dined,
bled stain onto cool porcelain, always survivor,
smashed the mirror where time's gears grind.
A man like that is not afraid to die.
I have been his kind.

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TOP BRASS

It was a cliche' that gave birth to an argument.
Ethyl said there were two sides to every coin.
I said there was actually three sides to a coin.
Our friend jumped in and said that there was only one
True side to a coin.
We flipped to see who was right.
"Heads" I said, "and you give me head."
"Tails" Ethyl said,
"and I'll give it to you in the tail pipe."
Sure enough, it landed and stood on its side.
"The Edge", our friend said,
"is both the mystery and the answer".
I shot a glance at Ethyl.
Ethyl sneered back to me.
Then Ethyl and I went to the bedroom
to work things out.