Gold Cure
By Ted Mathys
()
About this ebook
Ted is a beloved and respected Coffee House poet with an established readership. His poems read accessibly, but also work on planes of deep allegory and are full of subtle wordplay. The subject matter of Gold Cure is very timely, and Ted uses his theme to make fascinating connections between national and personal issues and cast familiar topics in a new light. We’ll be submitting Ted for the National Book Award and think this collection has a shot.
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Gold Cure - Ted Mathys
EL DORADO
El Dorado
With $18 cash, an Igloo cooler
and a compulsion to name,
7 miles beyond Muddy, population 100,
7 miles before Equality, population
unknown, through vaporous rain
falling gently like the Dow,
of sound mind and sound eyes
in the Year of the Rooster,
on a township road straight as a nail,
in work boots rubbed with mink oil,
past an irrigation lake, a big-box
trampoline park, and FREE GOLD
estimates at the pawnshop,
around a buckle in the slow Saline,
through the illusion of consensus,
asking nothing of the trees, in daylight
savings, in memory of poetry,
armed with syntactic categories,
prepositional and hungry,
I arrive in Eldorado, downstate Illinois.
•
The City of Daffodils has no daffodils.
It has Dad’s BBQ, and Dad is a pig.
His perverted smile is painted on plywood,
his overalls embroidered with Dad.
Dad holds a pulled-pork sandwich
in his hoof, a cannibal or fractal.
A couple in Carhartts fiddles on iPhones
over catfish and pickle spears.
Coke comes Regular or Big 32.
The server’s green headband
sprouts two boingy antennae,
the terminus of each
occupied by a plastic shamrock
and a mini pot of gold.
I remember it’s St. Patrick’s Day.
LIVE WELL, LOVE MUCH, LAUGH OFTEN
says the sign over the booth,
an admonition that Eldorado
needs no voice-over
to pin it together like a rivet,
that the kingdom of images
has its own conquistadors
who arrive in boats that fly no flag
to fire gild decrepitude into booty
in a complex alchemical process
that ends in a clean getaway
leaving locals to inhale
residual mercury vapor.
•
So I leave, just another
Pizarro fixing to return
from the rain forest basin
to face public opprobrium
with no gold or cinnamon
to show for looting and torturing
my way through an empty legend,
my provisions gone, men starved,
indigenous conscripts with smallpox,
the donkeys sick and the barge rotten.
But I run into road construction
on the road to Equality. A man
in a neon, knee-length raincoat
leans on a Caterpillar backhoe
with a sign that says SLOW.
So I double back to Eldorado
in my little raft of credulity.
An oil pump in the field
nods up and down approvingly.
Inland gulls forage at its base,
scattered like grains of wedding rice.
A deal on oxygen and acetylene
at the hardware store. A square
of particleboard on the church lawn
gives a blank pixel to Google Earth.
The digital billboard at Eldorado Spirits
offers video poker and 7-7-7 on the slots,
gold coins spinning like ballerinas
in egregious pirouettes.
On the town hall steps
a pair of wet, abandoned gloves.
One glove points to a plastic marquee
framed by burnt-out bulbs.
It is as empty as a thought bubble
above a cartoon explorer.
I fill it with three thoughts.
•
The first is that the boy
who ditched these gloves
now pumps the pedals of his Huffy
down a streak of asphalt by the library,
fuel-injected with the dysphoria
that he has just spent one slow afternoon
in a room with spars of golden light
tracing the soft floss of his friend’s pubic hair
and now might be going to hell.
The second is that the railroad hand,
who two centuries prior climbed a ladder
to paint the town name on the depot,
refused to let the town founders,
Samuel Elder and William Reed,
claim this hinterland as property,
so changed Elder-Redo to Eldorado,
an act of fake news with a paintbrush
that cleaved the sky in two, not east
to Appalachia and west to the Rockies,
but back