up jump the boogie

just started reading John Murillo’s most recent book of poetry, and i am an immediate fan.
his stuff is great.

check him out at http://www.johnmurillo.com/

here is a piece by him:


Six cigarettes in the dark like the eyes of three jackals
Scattering bones and dust; the schoolboy musk
Of we who hadn’t yet learned to wash properly
This much I remember.  And I can still taste that summer,
The blood of it, when a certain breeze blows.
Through a screen door, someone’s television plays
The theme song from S.W.A.T.  When Jojo gives the signal,
Every dog on St. Andrews Place stirs to alarm.
I’m told predators abhor violence, are pacifists at heart.
Truth is, there was not a pacifist among us.
Fifteen year olds are violent by nature.  Even the love
We dreamed of then–all thrust and sweat, tussle and scratch–
Smells of the kill.  Of course, the jack move is no exception.
And lack of recognition is reason enough for all kinds
Of mayhem.  In other words, homeboy wasn’t from around here.
Hey, Homey!  Don’t I know you from somewhere?
Let me talk to you real quick!  Begins the chase, the catch,
The coldest night in August, the sharpened spoon
Of logic lodged midway between sternum and clavicle.
And when we look toward the sky, even the moon
Holds its breath, goes still, and prays.  That was the night
I gave birth to myself:  Big Slim, the Chuck Taylor Shogun,
Deacon in the church of this hallelujah beatdown.
The moon gasps, and we slam the car doors, peel
Into the night.  When Jojo passes me the spliff, I try to still my fingers,
Knuckles fat and blue, spilling ashes on the gearbox.
He pops a tape in, twists the volume high as it will go.
The woofers rattle our ribcages, teeth,
The windows, the rearview.

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