Main Character Syndrome
Such an ominous gathering, a midnight choir
dauntingly harmonizing with conversation
tense as tendons holding muscle to bone, our
protagonist looms in the corner with a smile
of varying sincerity, sliding back and forth like
beads on an abacus. Crunching an empty beer
can, he wonders if he is interesting enough to
leave vices behind, lay them out on the lawn
like autumns’s leaves - he is not. Foliage keeps
him from confidently stating the color of grass,
frigid rain begins to fall and wash away stale dew
and his imagination is a pile of broken umbrellas
as he closes the door on a piercing soprano nobody
can hear. Desperately at odds with empty rooms
except for dusty surfaces and clothes twice worn -
there is no protagonist because there is no antagonist.
He is the half moon of his own clear midnight sky.
While the rest of us are bumping happy shoulders like
drunken mice, he is the unhappy goat chomping on our
refuse, thinking of tomorrow morning’s eggs and bacon -
of a way to immortalize himself and us around him,
so we stay close with our cameras around our necks
and fight irritation when he rolls his third joint of the day
without having made a joke or writing a song,
or shedding real tears from chances taken and lost. We sing
praises of the air outside and music of clanking
sewer grates and creaky swing sets as we hand him those dice.
He rolls snake eyes and takes a long drag. We watch
him drink in the morning.
I Love You, Rosemary
Thinking of the Kennedy’s often since
coming to New England - particularly
Rosemary and her lobotomy. Imagining
her antics as fun, the spirit of celebrity
in the new millennium before the sick
bastard Joe had her brain scooped out
like ice cream from a tub the way sick
bastards do, shouting at poor Rosemary,
“Lie still, you cunt!” waving an ice pick
above his head.
But I love you, Rosie.
Tell me what you saw. You just needed
somebody to listen, didn’t you? So
what if you got drunk and railed endless
lines of cocaine, sucked every cock and
licked every clit from Hyannis to Hollywood?
It’s what daughters of dynasties do -
it’s behavior most presidential, your
brothers feign in comparison, shot dead
because they weren’t you. We are the same,
Rosemary, when we hold our middle fingers
up. Those who say we are offensive
for the sake of being offensive are the ones
we set out to offend.
If you were here I’d pour you three shots
of tequila at a time and we’d take turns
shouting our favorite obscenities, and throw
darts at a picture of that bastard Joe, who
kicked America in the teeth when she was
her hungriest, most anemic and depraved.
I bet you’d drive a convertible, Rosie. I bet
you’d have a whole closet just for scarves
perfectly suited to be swept away going
eighty miles per hour down Route 1.
J.P. Amador is a Cuban-American poet from Miami, Florida. After graduating from Florida State University with a Bachelor of Arts, J.P. moved to Brooklyn, New York to pursue a career in writing, yet was quickly disillusioned by the opportunities available. The demeanor of suits in marketing and advertising left a sour taste in his mouth. However, with his love for poetry and the city present as ever, J.P. took a job as a barista, serving coffee and quietly working on his poetry. After a year of steaming milk for often ungrateful customers, J.P. decided to compile his most insightful and frustrating works into his very first manuscript, Poems No. 1. In his spare time, J.P. loves to cook, watch baseball, and noodle on his guitar.