Angel Zapata

GODWIN

Somewhere along the way,
a pic of a gastro pub lunch plate
is replaced by first degree murder.

Now a killer can upload
a vid of his vic in real time,
post it on his newsfeed— liked!

Used to be enough of a scare
for gunslingers to prop empty caskets
outside saloon or barber shop walls.

Today, we have the option to pause
the bullet frame by frame,
return after lunch for a hi-def replay.

Here I second-guess my motive
to promote a poem through social media:
dare I shed such precious blood?

And the man Steve Stephens
murdered— gun in one hand,
phone cam filming in the other—

will become a meme, another
exhausted trend, a hashtag scrolling
by much too quickly to follow.


Gerald So reads "Godwin":



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Angel confesses: "The random, senseless murder of seventy-four year-old, Robert Godwin, really upset me. Talk about wrong place, wrong time. It could have been any one of us. This poem was written to help me deal with my feelings on the subject."

ANGEL ZAPATA calls Augusta, Georgia his home. Born and raised in New York City, his award-winning fiction and poetry is a conglomeration of street smarts and Southern charm. His micro-poetry chapbook, Pearl Street, was recently published by Rinky Dink Press.

Angel Zapata

THE INSIDER

Let me dig the blade
a little deeper, wiggle
‘round the flesh and bone.

Went to med school,
assisted in autopsies.
Like a bucket down a well

surprises us with water,
the coroner trawled through
open chest depths, hooked

her ladle between the ribs.
Witnessed her Ginsu a man's
tongue, fan the red ribbons

like a deck of cards: Pick a card,
any card. Men foolishly pursue
the aces, but women learn

to draw the heart out, slowly.
I had to know he stopped
seeing the bitch. All the private

dicks in the world can't cut so
clear a truth. I knew I'd reach it—
there!— just beneath his skin.


Gerald So reads "The Insider":



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Angel confesses: "It's another time that eavesdropping sparks inspiration. I heard two women talking and one said to the other, 'I wish I could get inside of him and see what he's hiding from me.' And I was like, 'Yeah, let's do that.'"

ANGEL ZAPATA calls Augusta, Georgia his home. Born and raised in New York City, his award-winning fiction and poetry is a conglomeration of street smarts and Southern charm. He's authored a crime thriller novelette, literary and genre short story collections, and two poetry chapbooks. When he was a kid, creepy shadow people would stand by his bed and watch him sleep. Now he stands by their beds.

Day 6: Steven Torres on "Chalk Dust" and "Housekeeper"

Connecticut teacher and crime fiction author Steven Torres discusses Angel Zapata's poems on Day 6 of 30 Days of The 5-2.

Angel Zapata

CHALK DUST

Sis and me took the train
uptown, hopped off
at Hoyt Avenue,
stood over
the chalk outline
where dad
was gunned down.

Dad would say a man
with good posture
attracts a straight
and narrow woman,
but in the end
his spine had curled
into a fetal knot.

The cops said
it was a drug deal
(never said if he
was seller or buyer),
had taken two
to the gut; died
slow—agonized.

Hadn't heard from him
in years. You think
he suffered? Sis said.
I thought of my own
kids, just a wrinkled
photo in my wallet,
and knew that he had.


Gerald So reads "Chalk Dust":



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Angel confesses: "When I was fifteen, I discovered a woman's body on a NYC street. There wasn't a chalk outline, but I've often thought about the family she left behind. Would her children one day visit the very spot she died?"

ANGEL ZAPATA writes fiction and poetry. He is the recipient of the 2012 Mariner Award for Bewildering Stories' most outstanding flash fiction work of the year, "Carrion Folk", and a winner of the MicroHorror 2012 Story Contest for his horrific tale, "The Blood Worms". He's also the author of the poetry chapbook, An Offering of Ink and Feathers. Visit him at arageofangel.blogspot.com.

Day 27: John Ricotta

Voice of The 5-2 John Ricotta reflects on Angel Zapata's "Housekeeper", as performed by our friend, Deshant Paul, on Day 27 of 30 Days of The 5-2. —Gerald So


I’m a frequent visitor to The 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, and when Gerald asked me to contribute to 30 Days of The 5-2, I instantly, yet cautiously, said, "Sure. Put me down for April 27th." Toward the end of the month, i.e. maximum allowance for procrastination? Yes. Copious time to see how everyone else wraps their brain around their selected poems? Hey, why not? (Although I wish I'd read more of them.) I ended up selecting "Housekeeper" by Angel Zapata for a few reasons. While I've never met the author, the reader of the poem is an old friend of mine, and his haunting reading of Zapata’s work back in November 2012 has stayed with me. Also, I seem to connect with poetry that can read more like straight prose, and the narration of Zapata’s "Housekeeper" reads like a slow-burning short story. Lastly, I once randomly jammed with two other musicians in the side room of a crematorium while a "guest" was being cremated, so I've since been morbidly interested in the practice.

John Ricotta

We enter the mind of a man who’s committed patricide, but it's an initial, seemingly innocent deceit that thrusts us into the piece. This man does not smoke, yet he watches his housekeeper empty multiple ash trays into the trash. "Misdirection," he calls the crushed cigarette butts. The revelation that they are his own murdered father’s ashes causes us to circle back and question whether this man is attempting to silently admit his crime, or simply reveling in his clever ruse while the evidence is gradually removed from his home.

Zapata’s use of ash, dust on the mantel, and "the gray shape of father’s urn" works so fluidly as a tone-setter in the piece, and it's a perfect setup for when the narrator discloses the abuse he suffered at the hands of his father.

Dr. Rowe said I'd learn to let
dad go a little at a time

This section is the brilliant basis for the events of the poem, perhaps even the impetus for the narrator's murderous plot, if not only the bluntly literal means of getting away with the crime.

There is no remorse to be found in the words of the narrator, but his interest in the housekeeper's awareness makes us wonder how truly apathetic he is. When Zapata provided some background for his work, he openly wondered how a killer would interpret the concept of "letting go of the past." His narrator's literal interpretation of these instructions from therapy is more than just a play on words, but a means to an end for the narrator as he gradually rids himself of the man who abused him, the man he killed. —John Ricotta

Angel Zapata

HOUSEKEEPER

She thinks I’ve taken up smoking.
All around the house, she empties
ashtrays from exotic locales:
Hawaii, Tahiti, St. Croix.
The kitchen trash can has become
an island of volcanic ash.
She’s unaware, no cigarettes
ever taint these lips, scar these lungs.
The crushed butts are misdirection.
I watch her dust the worn mantel,
raise the gray shape of father’s urn.
She never suffered his abuse,
prayed he’d be stricken with cancer;
pushed the pillow over his face.
I wonder if she feels it change,
a steady loss of weight each week?
Dr. Rowe said I’d learn to let
dad go a little at a time.
My housekeeper knots the trash bag,
carries more of him out the door.


Deshant Paul reads "Housekeeper":



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Angel confesses: "I saw this photograph of a cremation urn. Looked just like a gold trophy. It reminded me of killers taking ‘trophies’ from crime scenes, keepsakes to relive the memory. I thought if a killer ever sought out professional therapy, how would he interpret ‘letting go of the past’?"

ANGEL ZAPATA grew up in New York City, but now lives in Georgia. He's married and has four sons. Some of his fiction and poetry can be found at Nailpolish Stories, Durable Goods, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Devilfish Review, Bewildering Stories, Right Hand Pointing, and Microw. Visit him at http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/.