The Gorko Gazette

THE GORKO’S SECOND WHOOPS SELECTION FOR JULY 29 – 4 AUGUST

Sonny Liston

They said hit him Sonny
hit him with your left fist
fist as thick as a paw
hit him Big Bear
hit him

They said hit him Sonny
hit him with your 20 arrests
jab that left jab
hit him knock him down
and the mob got rich

They said hit him Sonny
hit him and he hit
knocked out Floyd Patterson
knocked him out again
and the mob took the purse

They said hit him Sonny
Out of shape he fought Cassius Clay
couldn’t answer the bell 7th round
Did he undertrain Was he fat
He tore a tendon in his shoulder

They said hit him Sonny
but not too hard in the rematch
a right hand phantom punch
Did he throw the fight
Ali danced Get up and fight, sucker
Sonny didn’t get up

Sonny drugged in Vegas died in Vegas
heroin overdose he knew too much
hated needles his last hit
someone shot him up
a phantom punch

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The Attack

Worry arrives like a mother
who says I’m not leaving
until everything is done which means
you can’t turn on or turn off the faucet;
you worry you’re hurting water
and can’t disturb coffee rings
on the counter, rings perfect as bracelets
that your daughter fashioned from plastic.
Your daughter, your only daughter,
is she safe as a crossing guard?

How heavy will the hurt be when you
transplant the rose, your fingers like ten
bulldozers? You bull-nose in clothes so old
so inappropriate you can’t finish
a sentence—a menace that sentence
because words are clogging your breath
and your tongue is tangled. You can’t
open the door. Newspaper has
a murder story above the fold—
you know it, and if you do walk outside
snow will fill your steps and you
won’t know the way home.

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The WalL

for Steve Houk

My mustache fades
in the black marble
of names evenly spaced
perfect s’s and t’s, b’s,
the occasional q down to
your u and the hollow o,
same o your mouth made
yelling at boys when you
were camp counselor
splashing us with water
O O, being splashed,
chasing and being chased
with swaths of scotch broom.
The k is straighter
than the branches and limbs
we climbed, hung from,
kicked, dropped down,
climbed up, kicked, scraped
our shins that scabbed.
In this civil silence
the exact v of Steve
and two eyes of e
stare back watching,
waiting to spring to chase
to laugh back great howls
from here to Saigon.

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ABOUT THE ARTIST

Images generated on Magic Studio, collage by Raddy

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