poems: J.W. Basilo

Anointing the Hand
    for Gabrielle Bouliane, Gabrielle Calvocoressi, anyone who has ever gotten up

Often when a fighter sees his own blood,
the fight is over. A mere trickle off the nose
a slow knockout, he has begun his descent
to the turf, waving for no more.

The pacifist and I are discussing
the cuts on my hand, the missing skin
the red divots. Furrowing into her French Toast,
Hilary with her the master’s degree and cardigan
calls the combat of fist and feet barbarism,
a bastion of ill-guided masculinity
the death of what separates man from beast

And she has a point
You’ll see the dogs, puffed chest and head rock
cocking side to side like a speed bag
teeth born and barking
before the first punch is thrown

Sometimes you get beat
sometimes the beatings come by flood, nameless
But even if you are the one found slumped
on the canvas, in a pile on the barroom floor,
even if your face is cabbage swollen
and bleeding like a colander,
you will know the walk home

Know how the moonlight looks
when you’re no longer afraid of shit, your body
pulled into mortality’s mouth and spat out smiling
Power lives in the cocoon of the gut,
where refusing to swing back is the only wound
that will not close.

When I was nine, the bigger boy pressing
me into the snow, frozen
locking eyes with the bystanders, waiting
for someone to save me

The bully in the hallway punching faggot
into the valley between my shoulders,
how I stumbled into class, breathed shallow
against my desk all day

The two men with their beer breath and pistols
whom I let pin my arms and leave me
in the alley behind my house

Hilary doesn’t know these stories, how sometimes pacifism
is another word for the luxury of options
Means soft, means the first crack in one’s integrity
before it splinters beyond re-assembly

She couldn’t know I lost my job this week
and my friend is dying
and my last 200 bucks is a roundtrip
to Texas to say goodbye, that

there is no ceremony, no standing eight
no “maybe-she’ll-pull-through”
to any of this, powerless like that
I am a boy in a well this morning, a sedan on blocks

My second knuckles are wide open
matchheads with every hook and cross
There is a rusty Pollack on the torso
of the bag and I keep throwing
because until further notice my universe
is contained in this basement

in the heavy bag, in my busted shins
This blood is my own. No one can take away
what I have given to myself,
this sacrament of spilling
this iron-anointed last rite of man
I have power’s address and an open invitation

Sometimes I need to feel
as if something is within my grasp
and I am capable of making it crumble.

Digging

Breaking the soil is easy, the stomp of the shovel
prying the sod, the results are immediate, gratifying
this is a process, the first steps of a marathon you are
only too excited to begin. The clamber against the breastplate
a reminder, this is good work you are doing, every kick
and pitch. Dirt will collect in your collar as it arcs
overhead, your nailbeds soon black as the soot, you think
of your father or someone like him, a brute doing rugged
things like sacrament. You are your own man now
and you do this work for no one. The chasm grows
until you can longer bend and flurry with any sort
of efficient row. You drop down, the rim
of the earth kissing above your knee. This is where the work
begins. This is where the triceps turn to ember. This is
where the spine is iron and without joint. Fight the urge
to pause, to pad the sweat from the brow, at this stage
there is no pause only stop and you did not approach
the crater with options. When you are eye-level with the wreath,
when you are beyond the clay, two shoulders past mud parfait,
climb out. Resist the urge to stare, to admire
what you have done. The first shovel back is easy,
gratifying again. The sixth or seventh is where your wrists
will twitch, you will call this fatigue but know better.
After tossing the next two, the edges of the bounty
still visible, you will wonder if it is your stomach
at the bottom. You will keep shoveling, and faster,
until the earth is returned, almost whole, the sweat
diving off your cheeks, but you know better.
You know what is buried there. It doesn’t belong
to you anymore. Maybe nothing does.

Writer/performer/humorist, J.W. BASILO, is equal parts poignant and perverse, hilarious and heart-wrenching. His raucous performances and uncanny charisma have earned him a reputation as one of the most sought-after and compelling spoken word artists working today. His work has appeared on NPR, in the Chicago Tribune, and in hundreds of theaters, dive bars, schools and comedy clubs across North America. His one man dramedy, No One Can Fix You, debuted in 2009 to rave reviews in Chicago, Seattle, and New York City. As a competitor, Basilo was a finalist at the 2007 Individual World Poetry Slam, finished 2nd at the 2009 National Underground Poetry Individual Championship, and has represented Chicago at the National Poetry Slam four times. To date, he has released two full-length albums, Poet Laureate of Apt. 2E (2006) and Love Crimes, Etc. (2007), the chapbook, I Dare You to Believe This and is Writer in Residence at Chicago’s Real Talk Ave. All things considered, he’s doing pretty well for a guy who failed Creative Writing in high school. His artful jackassery can be found at his internet home, BustedMouth.com.