The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo: Difference between revisions

From Project Mailer
m (Grlucas moved page Centrano to The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo without leaving a redirect: In the wrong place.)
(Moved and fixed.)
Line 1: Line 1:
The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/“Remember the Alamo"
{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
 
{{MR13}}
{{MR13}}
 
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}
==='''Remember the Alamo'''===
<blockquote>—for David Koresh</blockquote>
 
 
<blockquote>Sal Cetrano</blockquote>
 
<poem>
<poem>
The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman  
The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman  
Line 28: Line 21:
</poem>
</poem>
<poem>
<poem>
''“Let us in!'' they chant. ''“We know you’re in there!''
''Let us in!''they chant. ''We know you’re in there!''
''“Who are you people?!''I ask. ''“What do you want?''
''Who are you people?!''I ask. ''What do you want?''
''“None of your business!'' they yell. ''“Just let us in.''
''None of your business!''they yell. ''Just let us in.''
''"Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''
</poem>
</poem>
<poem>
<poem>
Line 42: Line 35:
Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. ''“The cities
ample bosom laden with pistols. ''The cities''
have fallen”'', she cries. ''“They want the mission now.''
''have fallen'',she cries. ''They want the mission now.''
</poem>
</poem>


THE MAILER REVIEW, VOL. , NO. , FALL . Copyright © . The Norman Mailer
{{Review}}
Society. Published by The Norman Mailer Society
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

Revision as of 08:57, 24 February 2021

« The Mailer ReviewVolume 13 Number 1 • 2019 »
Written by
Sal Cetrano
Note: For David Koresh
URL: http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1

The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,

the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—

and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.

Let us in!” they chant. “We know you’re in there!
Who are you people?!” I ask. “What do you want?
None of your business!” they yell. “Just let us in.
Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!

The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.

Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “The cities
have fallen,” she cries. “They want the mission now.