Capitán Willard by TS Hidalgo

Capitán Willard

Saigon, shit:
it’s Saigon, it’s jet lag,
and I’m not a big Valium fan,
or of counting sheep
(or of reading Conrad),
and I don’t feel like loving myself
with just my hand
in the middle of the Apocalypse,
so I go down to buy at a lolitas store,
to the five and dime on the corner,
something new
something old,
something borrowed
and something blue,
so I chose Wo,
without any more name or love
or background or last name,
just Wo,
for, minutes later,
stars under the Sheraton’s rain
(electric delirious
spongy strong soft):
Vietnamese shower,
previous lack of pumping
and, after navigating the Leviathan together,
Sitting Bull I have finally died:
I go to the room
for my wallet,
I pay her
and I pour myself some verses of Johnie Walker
over the cubic solidity of the water:
God is all around.

by TS Hidalgo

Editor’s note: The voice of this narrator isn’t quite sober, but then neither is the imagery. The poem’s scattered lines meander through a rainy world, forcing the reader to squint past the blurry imagery to the all important last line.


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