Ode to my stalker, or: La Luna Bella
It's hard to play outside in the middle of winter
in Rio Frio.
It's home to a rude kind of cold. A type
of cold with no regard for one's health, safety
Like getting walloped in the head with a heavy spade- wooden handle
and you get that cold, ringing pain throughout
your body and your mind disappears for several moments
only to return angry and pissed off and raging
except...you didn't get walloped with a shovel
you only took a step outside
to warm up your
So no one plays outside. They stay
in and learn to smoke dope
or they raid their parents' supply of
oxycodone and play video games.
Maybe this happens everywhere these days
but in Rio Frio I always suppose it has something
to do with the cold.
on those lifeless, frigid nights
Angelica will send me out for
bread and eggs
or a DVD
when it's really quiet out. When I return, instead
of going back inside the house immediately,
I'll stand in my driveway
and the moon
like the mean uncle
from your childhood,
I'll sit and watch my breath
for several moments and the moon
sings to me, becomes my muse
reminding me of all the adventures we've been on together.
I'm six years old
dressed in a homemade batman
receiving dollars with my candy from some of the houses
as well as compliments from
I'm 12 years old
playing football in the streets
with a fury of friends
I drop an easy pass
and the moon,
doing the play-by-play
makes me feel like an idiot.
I'm 14 years old
getting drunk for the first time.
Most of the night is empty
except for a strobe light of memories
...a strange girl sitting on my lap....
...two strange girls in the back seat with me
as I drop the bottle of snapple being used
as a chaser
and the juice falls all over the floor of the
...Another new girl next to me
her tongue down my throat
no longer sure if I'm drunk off the liquor
or off the kiss....
The moon my pillow
on the 45-minute ride back home.
I'm 17 years old
in unceasingly fawning over Jazz Delgado
sitting in the back seat with me
though all we do is take shots of Bacardi
whenever we come to a stop sign
first one to stop drinking has to remove
a piece of clothing.
No one got naked.
I never even got a kiss.
twice its size over the horizon
a yellow mist over me
as it attempts to cleanse
me of the rotten, ignominious, embarrassing
stench of unrequited love.
I'm 18 years old
walking back to my dorm room
from college wrestling practice
with a small group of other freshman wrestlers
who don't really like me.
The moon heckling me
the entire time
beyond the reach of the nauseous
street lamps that light the way
back to the dining hall.
I'm still 18 years old
returning to my dorm from Bree Truelove's
with a broken heart.
The moon was a bit smaller
probably because it didn't know what to
I'm 19 years old
my fists bloodied
from a victorious drunken throwdown
with some punk
outside of my apartment
after he got froggy at a part.
I'm lonely and heartbroken
but for one night I feel better,
loved, appreciated, wanted
as everyone celebrates my victory
with drink and haze and loud music.
The moon gazes down on me
with a look of grey disappointment.
I'm 21 years old
walking back from the gym
On my way to Angelica's house
where I know she'll make me a grilled
cheese sandwich and some soup. Not
yet dating, but the moon
shines like a big pizza pie.
I'm still 21
it's the first night without
my old man El Chupacabra the Greater
whose heart failed him
much too soon.
the moon is there to remind me
that we are never born
and we never die
and this is true even of
I'm 26 years old
it's 3: 00am and I'm looking
for something to eat.
The only place open is McDonald's
but they're not yet serving breakfast
so I order some chicken nuggets and
The moon smiles
and smokes a cigar with me
before I go back into the hospital
to be with my wife and our newborn
It wasn't so cold that night.
Instead it was an amicable cool
that allowed the moon and my shadow and I
to marinate in our oneness.
Whatever that means....
Manny Furious's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Ode to my stalker, or: La Luna Bella by Manny Furious )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(10 February 1970-)
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