david shumatein search of mariachis

In Sea rc h of Mar Iach IS

David Shumate

Epiphany Edit ions 2012

acknowledgeMentS

The author would like to thank the following publications for their support of his work:

La Petite Zine (“In Search of Mariachis” & “The Races of Man”)

SUSS: another literary journal (“Vagabond”)

Third Coast (“If You Hire a Poet to Draw a Map”)

5 AM (“Curry”)

Sweet Lit. (“Prometheus”)

Flying Island (“After They Plundered the Language”)

Booth (“The Department of Love”)

The National Endowment for the Arts

Arts Council of Indianapolis

Published by Epiphany Editions, © David Shumate 2012

Cover designed by Martin Rock set in Eurostyle and features an image from Hone’s Everyday Book, William Hone, 1826, London.Contents designed and typeset by Joe Lops, set in Vectora and Fairfield.

contentS

In Search of Mariachis 9

Vagabond 10

Troy 11

If You Hire a Poet to Draw a Map 13

The Art of the Moors 14

Waking up as a Buddhist 15

Talking to the Woman in the Yellow Kimono 17

Route 66 18

Republic of Umbrellas 19

Rain Dance 20

The Immigrant’s First Day at School 21

Prometheus 22

The Meek 23

After they Plundered the Language 24

Curry 25

Kimonos in the Closet 26

The Village of Miraculous Happenings 27

A Thousand Steeples 28

Octopus Stuck Between my Teeth 29

The Department of Love 30

Darwin’s Beard 31

Wrestling with an Angel 32

In the Company of Bedouins 33

Loneliness 35

Summer Night 36

The Last Nazi 37

An Acre 38

10

Vagabond

I am part of the ancient tradition of going away.

The art of leaving everything behind. I set fire to my

maps years ago when I saw through all their lies. I

know north by the smell of buffalo. And south by its

tangerines. I am like a slow river. With feet. Pigeons

are of interest to me. And violins hurled from attics.

Sometimes I become Jack from Boise. Or Arthur

from Arkansas. I sleep where I sleep. Eat what I can.

I carry a feather in my pocket but can’t remember

why. If you need to get in touch with me, open your

window and shout. I’ll tell you a secret about my

kind…It starts when you set out on a pilgrimage.

Then someone keeps moving the shrine.

13

If you hIre a Poet to draw a MaP

He will take liberties with the land. He’ll unwind

rivers that offend him. He’ll move mountain ranges

that get in his way. He’ll expand the coastline to

make room for more otters and seals. He’ll slide the

equator a dozen degrees north so the winters won’t

be quite so harsh. He’ll rename major cities after the

lovers of his past. On the east coast there’s Penelope,

so plump and polluted. And Melinda in the west,

awash in fragrant flowers. He’s likely to add a few

states. Some as small as a café. Others span great

swaths of the open sea. He’ll sketch in highways

where it pleases him. The black ones are designed

for families and grandmothers traveling alone. The

green and orange roads are not for novices. They

twist and turn. Go underground for miles. Pass right

over lakes. Then the asphalt ends. You get out of your

car. A farmer greets you by a fence. He hands you a

carrot. You ask the obvious question. And he replies,

Yes. Yes. This is the end of the orange road.

19

rePublIc of uMbrellaS

It is one of those rare islands that managed to cloak

itself in fog each time the ships of Christian sailors

creaked by in the wind. The natives were never

baptized. Never taught the rules of temptation and

sin. They simply went on tending their orchards

of guavas and papayas. Spearing fish beneath their

waterfalls. Raising the children that were born

after those pleasant unions in the sand or up in the

mountains. These tribes came to light last year when

they threw fruit and stones at a cruise ship that ran

aground. You may have seen the photographs in the

newspaper. Now you can rent bicycles there. Drink

rum. And buy chilled coconut and crucifixes from

the dark-skinned natives who rush about with their

serving trays beneath the forests of beach umbrellas.

23

the Meek

It’s been so long and still the meek have not

inherited the earth. Of course, there’s a lot of

paperwork involved, some of which has to be filled

out in triplicate. The offices of the powerful will

have to be vacated and the purple and yellow walls

painted over with a tamer shade of beige. And most

of the parking lots must be razed and replaced with

pastures for the grazing of sheep and goats. Any

other group would be out protesting in the streets,

demanding their just deserts. Waving placards

about. Smashing windows. Setting cars aflame until

the riot squads stormed in with their tear gas and

their snarling dogs. But these folks are in no hurry

to claim what is rightfully theirs. It is difficult to

tell how many people we’re talking about. Some

estimates run as high as thirty percent. Others

suggest it’s just a handful of people so transparent

you don’t notice them gathering your dirty dishes

in a restaurant or shining your shoes as you wait for

your train.

24

after they Plundered the language

We noticed their campfires up in the hills but

thought they belonged to shepherds. Then one night

barbarians swooped down while we were asleep and

made off with a thousand precious words. Like the

one we spoke at burials to usher the dead into the

dark. And those phrases we learned from the Greeks

who in turn stole them from the gods. And all those

words lovers invented on their own. They, too,

have vanished. Only the words of commerce and

utility remain. Sometimes we’re reduced to drawing

pictures to convey what we mean. Or gesturing

with our hands. There used to be a gentle word we

spoke when we wanted to be intimate with a lover. It

conveyed both good faith and desire. Now we must

paint our faces red. Do a little dance. And set a hat

by her door.

25

curry

I am drawn to those blue gods with four arms. And

I subscribe to the holiness of cows. I fall easily

under the spell of the sitar. As if the cosmos came

with strings only the pure can pluck. I admire how

Hindus bathe in rivers where goddesses reside.

Though I’m reluctant to wade into the Mississippi

chanting sutras of my own. Where I was brought up,

cows get led off to slaughter. Saints are too sad to

dance. Back there you live only one measured life.

Then trot off to your reward. I lean over this platter

of curry. Close my eyes as if in prayer. Inhale its

aromas. And pause. Like a pilgrim at a temple door.

Removing his shoes before he steps inside.

32

wreStlIng wIth an angelafter Rembrandt van Rijn

It’s best to circle him for a while. Keeping your arms

extended. Your center of gravity low. He’ll try to

trick you with a flutter of wings. Or some celestial

spark. He’ll claim he’s your guardian and just wants

to save you from yourself. But keep your gaze fixed

on his eyes. Sing a tune to distract him. Catch him

off balance. Use leverage to take him to the ground.

He’ll duck and weave around the bystanders.

Waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Though

the crowd will see only you. And suspect you’ve

declared war upon yourself. If he maneuvers his

way on top of you, your cause is lost. He’ll subdue

you with his grace. Drain the froth from your anger.

Then bind you with his little ropes of light.