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art-literature-music/arte-literatura-música
Punch springs from  
his heels and twists
a lamentation, a demand.

Morphology always comes
naturally to those puppets  
small and swift and dandy.

As Punch ironically cups
his chin, blacks his own eye
a monologue, didactic

erupts!

Of those
tyrannic
losses, whose

grasping means
are anyone’s match
do not lose

the certain fact
they will not oblige.
At best, you’re someone

whose comeuppance
(he coughs) Alack!
is not yet due.
A puppet
a motion
is a pure
thing.
A form
without question
or motive.
Punch believes
in Nothing.
Knows Judy
and her glaive.
Each is distinct.
Each loves him,
and Punch turning
loves each
as himself.
“Where’s Judy!?”
A scratch to start
his day
an answer
to end it.
is Punch’s
wish—
buried
with golden sewn
buttons
and a pocket
full of ash.

He sweats
in his sleep’s
dreaming.
He succumbs
with each cut
string—watches
the sky
break like a
cracked
egg-shell.
Murmurs
revenge
tragedies:
“If one good deed
in all my life
I did / I do
repent it from
my very soul.”

His glory
thrums in
his deep
sleep, his
nocturnal
immobility.
Punch does
not have a
real name:
Improvisation is
his métier.
He is unformed
unable to stand—
an asymmetrical
mystic (teeth
large and clapping)
bent in directions
better left
unmentioned.

. . .

Punch is not
history.  His
is the musical
cruelty of
duendé.  His
wretched mirth
is his path
to god, with
which he
will someday
make a
murder
maybe his
own.
Advice toward Nothing
Nothing holy
To be
bruised
Punch does not
*Trevor Calvert lives in Oakland, CA.
Visit his
blog.