MaverickMagazine

MaverickMagazine 4

The Voice of American Poetic Arts



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    Henry Oso Quintero is a very mean man. He likes guns. He lives alone a ranch outside of Tyrone, NM. He eats rabbit, and snake and horse meat regularly... Or so the Hollywood version of Henry's life would go. In reality Henry is a native New Mexican, from a generation of landed, college educated mestizos who annually reclaim their ancestral lands through rituals of poetry and song.

    OASIS


        opening febrile opening again apocryphal mirror

        we are inside no harm

        will come traipsing

        her golden hairs engagingly provocative inseminate

        the opening again penetrate the sacred space of her

    VIOLENT PROGRESS

        Never the midnight vibrates until a wine glass
        breaks. The train twists
        off track. Unslaked, mistaken claims
        flash the cabin like a camera. The future maims

    GRACE


            "Age is a short word for a long sag,"
            she spat. Then sat in still birth sigh,
            an envelope with wetted chin,
            as words just fit because they do,
            twist a stanza to its close.
            Her hair, a thick mosquito net,

    THE HANGOVER


            Familiar with this fallen moon,
            I ask you point cold blank:
            "Do you drink every night?"
            An answer, the hangnail of silence,
            bleeding color, forming crust.
            Conversation peeling back
            as if it hit pedestrians,

    A SMALL REVOLUTION

    The meditating man leaps up from his spot and yells, "piss on it!"
    The Nuns are benumbed, but act in accordance with the Prefect's wishes and dispose of the meditating man's spot. Colors blur from the eyes of the meditating man, creating a sulfuric mist, difficult to drive through and

    BOAT NAZIS

        Maybe you've seen them: red-necked and meaty,
        one is always shaved, articulate and sinister--
        he's the meanest; the other is fat with a beard
        he's been growing since the land run. I'm standing
        on a rocky shore casting my 39 cent Walmart jig

    ESPIONAGE

        1.

        Painful as it is to admit, I like your shoes.
        The soft leather sheen soothes my rough
        exterior, eyelids. She said something
        like this; I can only imagine
        it stemmed from a deep-seated foot
        fetish. Beneath the table, her toes
        curled round my laces, unfastening me.
        In the room tension was thick
        like cake. The dinner theatre crowd
        poured in, men decked out in lavender
        suits, women wore sharkskin jackets.

    THANK YOU PEN


        I am writing this thank you with the pen
        you sent me for my birthday. It is a nice,
        new pen. It glides so smoothly, and the ink
        does not run. As people walk by, I see them
        eye my new pen, its sleek, black curves
        like a woman's thigh. I hear a wife remark
        to her husband, "how gratuitous." A young
        boy gasps with wonder at how smoothly

    In the crystal ball
    It was like midsummer tarmac waves
    When King Louis the XIV, the last solar lord ruling,
    Had seen Cortés gazing intently
    Into snails bubbling in salt.


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