Poetry: Selections from Karl Koweski

poker with the natives

back home, Chicago, when Lopez

and his crew went down on RICO charges,

a mandatory minimum, twenty years,

Alex was fortunate enough to be entombed

in the bowels of Oklahoma State Prison

playing five card draw at a table

surrounded by grim brown faces

curtained with hair a darker shade of black.

 

when the man most men deferred to

was referred to as Grey Mountaintop,

Alex cocked an eyebrow, set down his

losing hand and said “that sure is a

crazy ass name for a Puerto Rican.”

 

seven pairs of dark eyes regarded Alex

incredulously, until Teddie Zahn asked

“where the hell do you think you’re at?”

 

Grey Mountaintop continued the education.

“these are first nation lands, homeboy,

and you’re looking at the descendants

of the Alabama Choctaw who were

forced off their ancestral lands and

marched here at great loss in 1830.”

“shit, I thought you guys got killed off.

for real, there’s Indians still left out here?”

 

Grey Mountaintop could not have been

more dumbfounded had Coyote slipped

through the fence and severed his tongue.

 

“I’m Polish blood, myself,” Alex said,

slapping the golden warbird that mostly

resembled a strangled chicken tattooed

on his left forearm. “my buddy, Manuel

Lopez, he’s Puerto Rican, and he

don’t look any different from you guys.”

 

“if you’re not one of us, why are

You rocking the feathers on your leg?”

 

in seconds, Alex’s mind raced through the

compendium of ink embellishing his skin.

“oh, you’re talking about the Blackhawk

tattoo on my calf. I got that to celebrate

the 2014-2015 Stanley Cup victory.

it’s not Indian shit, it’s Chicago hockey,

which, I guess, when you get down to it,”

Alex hedged, “doesn’t everything in this

country come back to the native heritage?”

 

Grey Mountaintop grunted, went back to

regarding his cards, the surviving Choctaws

following suit, and when Alex caught

two kings on the flop, giving him three

of a kind, Alex did the honorable thing

and folded, believing these natives were

one more loss to a white boy away

from scalping one loud mouth Polack.

pot holders

the moment his lawyer

handed his mother the

pot holders embroidered

with marijuana leaves,

Alex knew he was fucked.

 

more so, now, as his

mother who had never

baked a casserole

in her life studied

the pot holders as

though they were Rubik

cubes and she suffered

from color blindness,

than when he was

initially stopped by

the K-9 unit

3 o’clock in the morning

while he piloted a

rented Chrysler, trunk

pack with sixty pounds

of marijuana, across

an infamous drug corridor

somewhere in Oklahoma.

 

he suspected he

was fucked then as

he watched the officer

lead the german shepherd

around the car, dog as

calm as a Hindu cow,

not a concern in the

world except maybe

an eventual treat.

the cop knew better,

knew the odds of

a twenty-year-old

in a rented vehicle

on this stretch of road

at this time of night

being completely innocent

were astronomical.

Alex watched in his

rearview mirror as

the police tugged on

the leash until the

dog whined and bristled.

 

“sir, I’ve got a hit.

I’m going to have to

search your vehicle.”

 

well, Alex figured,

there’s a possibility

I might be fucked.

 

on the way to the

police station,

Alex must have seen

six billboards

advertising the

services of this lawyer,

apparently, the most

successful marijuana

defender in the entire

state of Oklahoma.

 

Alex failed to

understand his error

until he traded the

thousand dollar retainer

for a pair of

pot holders, noticing

as the lawyer

straightened his tie

the strip of fabric

was embossed with

tiny marijuana leaves.

 

Alex, recounting the

cop’s shenanigans,

elicited a chuckle.

“that’s what they do—

no worries, though,

with this being your

first offense, I don’t

see you serving more

than two and a half

years of a possible

seven, with a few

year’s probation.”

 

the sentence being

no different had

Alex decided to

represent himself

minus the pot holders.

ambien amazon

 

her swollen minnow eyes

swim in rheumy sockets.

I want to capture them

in my palms and study

the languid green scales

for an understanding that

experience has yet to provide.

 

her chin is raw and chapped

from near constant friction

against my unshaven face.

I touch my thumb upon

this blazing cuckold’s kiss

and laugh at how her

husband mistook it for acne.

 

I embrace her lithe body,

burrow my face into

the crook of her neck

lined by her soft golden hair,

this den fit for her wolf

where only the late hour

can expel me now.

 

the empty bottles of corner

store wine we shared

slurs my whispered pledges

to baby doll babble,

the habitual ambien

she slipped between her

lips earlier this evening

dwindles her responses

until those swollen minnow

eyes float in stagnant pools

and I’m left making fake

promises only to myself

on this, our last night

before I leave forever.

Karl Koweski is a displaced Chicagoan now living atop a mountain in rural Alabama. His stories and poems have been published throughout the small press and have been collected in several books and chapbooks.