J.D. Debris

JD 005


JD Debris is a Boston-based poet, songwriter, recording artist, and member of neo-soul artist Qwill's touring band.  While an undergrad at Salem State University, he has released his debut solo album "Black Market Organs" on Simple Truth Records, won the individual slam at the Mass Poetry Fest, published poems in Soundings East and The 5-2 Crime Poetry Review, and played shows up and down the east coast.  http://www.jddebris.com.

Chico Corrales 

You could fit a bouquet of snakes inside his sleeve
& still leave room for his arm to swim. 
A marvel of compaction, how his muscles, after
endless reps, refused to expand, just coiled
tighter & tighter, like DNA strands
around girded steel.  The way his
snake-arms swung while running,
breaking into an impromptu shadowbox,
natural reflex recalibrated to kill. 


Her black eye matched his
as she placed her palm against the glass
partition, ear to the receiver. 
Young marriage balanced on bloodsport,
(red wine glass frozen mid-shatter
above the mattress)
precarious as waiting for brain damage
to start showing its symptoms. 


Chico, untranslatable to the language
of brute force, 5'10", fatless, & hummingbird-swift.
The metaphor of his body's steel no match
for the real article: bars boxing him in,
highway divider splitting his sport bike in two,
his body in pieces.  No coach's towel to wipe
the blood away. No bright lights above.  Among
the wreckage, Chico, do you flash back to an earlier war?
Every bruise on your body a purple heart, then.
Now, just pale blue patches beneath coroner's gloves. 


Envision it: Vegas in the spring, final stretch
of your first Castillo war. Coach, towel draped
over his paisley-polyester collar,
shouts your Christian name over the drunken roar
"Diego Diego Diego!" as you spit out your mouthpiece
in a desperate grab for a few more hellspent seconds.
Coach wipes it on his towel, saying
"You better get inside him now" & your teeth,
Chico, clamp down on the plastic. 


Chico, all smiles, championship belt
slung over his shoulder, crowd-surfing
a swelling entourage around the ring,
snake-arms extended towards the sky. 

Later, at the hospital, they take a urine sample
& it looks like a bottle of tomato juice.

© The Acentos Review 2017