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Martha Chaves

of

Toronto, ON, CA

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Technical knock Out

by

Martha Chaves

I've been wondering where
I threw in
the towel
In your breath of fire injected in my eardrumm
In the tentative route of your fingerprints
In the deep cave of your right armpit
In the secret passsage of your knees

In the beat of the rhymes without a reason in the madman"s mouth praying at Cafe Campus
-while our hands were weaving our illicitness
for the first time-
In the Mozart's piece that anounced me
you were calling my cell
-Amadeus as an accomplice, not bad!-
In the rosary of excuses we would bounce
on each other
like a perfect tennis match
between Venus and Agassi

In the lines we'd write behind the back of our muses
-whom we eventually fire with no pity-
in napkins,matchboxes, pamphlets
newspapers' corners

In Mont Royal
guessing the character of the clouds
and assigning them roles
as prescribed by Deepack

In the Tequila sunrise
reflected in the mirror of your glassy eyes
where hopelessly drawned mine

In a strand of hair you left
in the pillow of the hotel

in Montreal


1980's

by

Martha Chaves

Madonna
Boy George
Tacky haircuts
Music Videos
Uninhibited consumerism
Anti Arpatheid Activism
Ronald Reagan
Royal Wedding
The Arms Race
The Race Armed
Star Wars from The Pentagon
Star Wars the sequel
Coke
War on drugs
Crack
War on the Ghetto
AIDS
"And the Band played on"
"Just Say No"
But Rock Hudson
"Tear that wall"
Ollie North
The "Domino" theory
The dominant reality:
The North
The famine in Ethiopia
The "Freedom fighters"
-they fought against freedom-
The "Challenger" explosion
Granada's violation
Ayatollah's veiled vision
More, of course
Ah...!
my departure
to my own
private
exile

Palabras Necias Polvora en Zopilote

by

Martha Chaves

You threaten me by saying you hold grudges
with the lethal dedication of Don Corleone
and that you have on file
e x c r u c i a t i n g
lists of all my faults,
in the comfortable lap of your photographic memory.
This information, according to your bets,
will make me loose my will to fall sleep
I'll be tossing and turning between my sheets
trying not to get drowned by the tidal wave
of my own sweat
and my eyes like black marble balls
obsessed on the fluorescent fixation
of the time stuck
in the digital
clock
shook up and waiting
for the unavoidable gloomy end of the plot:
attentively predicting
to hear your killer's steps
coming to take me to fry on the chair
or to get the inyection that would seal the contract
Your arrogance amazes me...
and what a bad poker player you'd make
Your Bluff is as effective
as a dog's bark heard in the distance in a radio station
with bad reception
Yes.
Your memory may be "photographic"
but I know you develop
the films plunging them in small lakes of Vodka
behind the bars of The Darkroom
painted dark with the brush of your self doubts
and you put the negatives to dry by hanging them
from the twisted umbilical cord
that feeds your Paranoia
with your blackandblue decapitated Ego
The Result:
Shaky portraits
with no arms and no legs
and Absolute-ly
Out of focus