TWO POEMS – Devlin De La Chapa

Posted: December 7, 2011 in Fiction, Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,


Santa sits on the Simpson’s roof
cursing at little kids
naughty, nice, evil, sexy, ho. . .Ho. . .HOE
a big man
in a little red suit
imprisoned within a TV show
He’s cute, Marge says
He’s a waste of space, Homer says
Da Da, Maggie says
If you scramble the words to Santa they spell Satan, Bart says
Ha Ha, Ha Ha, Nelson mocks
somewhere Rudolf blows his red bulb
Mrs. Claus drowns in Peppermint Bourbon
the Reindeers suck on powdered monoxide and die
the elves escape happily to Munchkinland
and Millhouse, at long last, is fucking Lisa beneath the Mistletoe.


@ 4:01 a.m. I awoke to the sound of the alarm,
my husband’s voice asking me for a divorce
I showered, and cried,
got dressed, and cried
jumped into my car, and cried,
drove through StarBucks, and cried

‘I can’t fake it anymore’ he said
‘I meant to ask you yesterday’ he said
‘But the Turkey looked so good’ he said
‘I figured I enjoy your cooking one last time’ he said

Dodging through empty traffic,
a lady slammed on her brakes
I spill Cappuccino all over my lap
the malted liquid burns through my jeans
the pain like Sugar Plums pounding in my head
I tossed the empty cup out the window nonchalantly
like tossing ten years of my life with my husband
I glanced through the rearview mirror
lights are blinking colors of Christmas

‘It’s a crime to litter, ma’am’ the cop says

‘Just give me the fucking ticket!’ I snapped

I then snatch the ticket, crumpled it
like crumpling my husband’s little big head
and toss it at the cop’s face
The stench of foul piss sweat on the cruisers back seat
reminded me of our honeymoon
in our dingy hotel room in Rio

I pled “Guilty” to a Disorderly Conduct

‘Because I have to go shopping’ I tell the Judge

Then I babble, babble, babble
Thanksgiving, Turkey, Divorce
I’m let go with a hefty fine.

@ 6:01 a.m. I fight my way through the Christmas rush of
screaming mothers, crying babies, depressed fathers
edgy girlfriends, reserved boyfriends, jealous singles
in search of that magical gift,
that quintessential gift,

that ‘please don’t divorce me’ gift

but I end up at the food court
downing more Cappuccinos than I could swallow
contemplating suicide on Santa’s lap
texting my mother, blaming my father,
swearing at my happily married sister
amidst all my chaos of becoming Mrs. Ex
I pull myself together
I think about the good, the bad, and
the extra-curricular of my marriage
now sitting beside me choking on a cancer stick

‘What did you expect?’ he says
‘He was going to find out sooner or later’ he says
‘You said that that’s what you wanted’ he says

I flick the stick from my lover’s lips
the butt end hits an elderly couple strolling by
they don’t feel the threat of burning death lingering
on their ultra chic vintage clothing
I hiss, then I sigh out, then I start to cry
wondering why my husband couldn’t have waited
till after Black Friday to divorce me?
My lover tries to comfort my tears
but they fall, fall, fall

‘It’s going to be alright’ he says

‘It’s not that’ I say

‘Then what is it?’ he says

‘Promise me you won’t ask for a divorce on Black Friday’ I say

I sound desperate like once slugging my way from the past
of shoppers once killing themselves silly over
Tickle Me Elmo’s and TalkBoy toys 
my lover then laughs and crosses his heart then uncrosses it
he takes my hand and we stroll through the mall,
dodging shoppers drowning in oversize shopping bags
weeping invisibly behind maxed out credit cards while
having to go home to their spouses to explain their infidelities
I rest my head against my lover’s shoulder
thankful that I’ve already explained mine

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