Anthony Cappo: #NotTrump Series
America is at My Door
I thought today would be the day
I’d sleep
But America is at my door
AK-waving japes for attention
It’s googled my address
I thought we’d be safe
in our houses
but a fusillade of gunsmoke
serenades the sky
America’s burning its bridges
and doesn’t know why
Face recognition software
paints my block
Cameras scan my front buzzer
My country’s taken a lover
and its jealousy’s insane
Badges swing
their truncheon song
Don’t be caught dark—
night or day
America means business
and is pounding away
Ground shakes—
drilling earthquakes
Mountains remove their caps
The register’s ka-chinging
and is ringing my door
A hum runs through everything
Fireballs ignite the sky
America needs silence
and doesn’t even try
I thought today would be the day
I’d sleep
But my cellphone’s buzzing
I can’t feel nothing
And America is at my door.
Independence Day
Descartes thought the pineal gland the principal seat
of the soul, and, if true, Joe’s soul exploded
when the third bullet hit its mark. Was Victor suffering
from dementia, some build up of brain sand
when he fired the shots?
No. Victor did not have dementia or any other brain funk.
He was drunk, true, an old punk in full-on
mess mode. He ached for Anna, who was through
with him. A violent fuck of a man, she said.
All hopped up, he toddled into the theater, Glock held high,
and demanded three things: a gold watch, canary, and a plane
to Cuba. Waving his gun, he muttered, Express train
to the coroner, right here. Vic shot up the screen
while reciting his screed against modernity. Joe flashed back
to childhood memories of Chief Jay Strongbow
applying his sleeper hold and lunged in Vic’s way.
Without delay, Vic fired and Joe joined the legions
of dead 21st-century heroes. They named the theater
after him, the mayor declared a day in his honor,
and his wife got a framed proclamation.
And they all talked about what a beautiful soul Joe had.
Clouds
Looking out my window seat, clouds
surveil the Arizona desert, cast Rorschach
shadows on washed-out mounds below.
Gaseous drones roaming at will—tracking
every lizard and rattler’s movement.
Your papers, please. Hovering eyes
to spy threats to the peace.
But at first
their blue-black shadows seemed scattered
lake oases breaking the land’s monotony.
Pools of hope dotting the desert, stocked
with rainbow trout, perfect for a cool dip
or jetski.
But eventually real lakes crawl
across my window—in jagged shapes—
and I know we’re not over the desert anymore.
And again clouds are clouds, not benign,
not malignant, no greater significance.
I exit the plane and descend
into the thousand-eyed sunset.
Anthony Cappo is the author of the chapbook, “My Bedside Radio” (Deadly Chaps Press, 2016). His poems have appeared in Prelude, Connotation Press – An Online Artifact, Stone Highway Review, Pine Hills Review, Yes Poetry, and other publications. Anthony received his M.F.A in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College. He grew up in South Jersey, but is a long-time resident of New York City. His work can be found at anthonycappo.com.
