Saturday, April 28, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
(to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle)
whipped black man strung up high
looked a white woman ride in the eye.
pick a nigger then laugh and cheer
picture postcards, “wish you’re here!”
whipped black man strung up high
Mamas hug your boys before they die.
penis in a pickle jar
makes me wonder who you are
up upon the southern shelf
cut away from your black self.
penis in a pickle jar
on my heart you leave a scar.
oh them days are long and gone.
all us folks, we just moved on.
all is love and harmony,
them folks really love their trees.
oh them days are long and gone
‘cept for the bullet in little Trayvon.
NOTE: Saw this today. This is all I could think. http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-afghan-photos-20120418,0,5032601.story
I catch myself in the shadows
of sunlight cells on the floor. back bone,
an animated broom stick flaring into
a swishing, sighing of brocade
and lace. up and down,
back again. sometimes I yell
at golden angels, arms always ready
to light my path. “vous pourrez vous
détendre ! reste ! arrêter! I can’t
choose le salon de la guerre ou salon
de la paix. restless kid
slippers between the sighs
of my whispered muttering.
les évents toujours amplifie…
I gnaw at my memories
twists my hands like those famous
words they put in my mouth.
they taste like resuscitated
jerked beef and seven day stale
baguette. not cake. jamais gâteau.
never again. but no. mais non,
mais non, jamais gâteau
pour être certains. a web pulses
from the angel's arms. trail of light.
the Swedish chef makes Americans tears
Bork! Bork! Bork! Ha! Ha! Ha!
on youtube. Dude, I'm dying!
quoi? Lena, qu'est-ce que vous avez dit ?
Non! No you did not say,
vous n'avez pas dir
puur effreecun vumee! dun’t knoo
vhet zeey vunt. um de hur de hur de hur.
soorely a poossy is mure-a impurtunt thun cleun veter,
Perheps sumetheeng tu groo. herfest
meel und seed. bork bork bork!
a releeeble-a cuukeeng defeece- a,
tu serfe-a zee cheeldree’s stretcheeng muooths
egeeen und egeeen, zeey esk fur seed und coos
nefer zeeur poosseees. um gesh dee bork, bork!
thuse-a deleececies. um gesh dee bork, bork!
ve-a knoo vhet tu du. this is a statement.
a cake should always be sliced.
there will always be screaming and crying.
art shuoold elveys be-a prufuceteefe-a.
bork! bork bork!
foolish. pas drôle ape!
le nord ne peut jamais apporter la paix.
tellement stupide! Hear me? Madame
des la Suède m’entendre étouffement
sur mes propres mots? my head!
j'ai perdu ma tête. vous ne vous
en souvenez pas mon bouge encore les lèvres
dans un rough panier en osier?
a wicker basket! my lips still moving.
my crimson neck pumping blood
no different than a slaughtered cow.
the cheering crowds. this gallery
haunted. mirrors and my shadow
divided by sunlit cells. the stupid angels
refuse to put down their arms
so stupid! vous ignorant chatte
d'une vache. does no one remember?
et vous Madame Envie D’être Première Dame
des Amerique, si votre husband est un dumbass,
vous ne devez pas être à ses côtés.
la liberté ! l’égalité! sonorité! a fragile
monster ratatiné et de sucer les plâtres sur ma mort.
votre pays aurait dû être mon l'avortement.
my swallowed words could have rooted
la révolution bâtard né de mon sein.
I could have put a pillow over your head
alors que vous avez dormi dans votre enfance
si j'ai eu tout enfermés, et j'ai écouté.
just shut up and listen. tar flaring on the torches.
people in the streets. sick and hungry.
malades et affamés est votre âme!
mais non! mais non! mères bourgeoises
et démunies sont pas comme vous!
jamais! never! to hope for nobility
ce n'est pas vrai pour vous.
You eater of bon bons, avant le salon de beauté
mais après gymnase, profiter d'une séance
de massage, email the menu to the caterer,
dispatch the priority list to the cleaning crew,
aller faire du shopping et de la pratique
le kama sutra avec le garçon de piscine pour vous
satisfaire suite carte de crédit privilèges.
Vous ne parlez pas pour les femmes.
watch tour pretty little head. So full of illusions
like this hall of mirrors. fiats attention à votre tête.
sortir ridicule les femmes! je suis
malade et je dois balayer
ces étages avec mon raffinement.
tell the angels to get busy with something else
than this pretense of eternal light. the chanting
torches. shoes drumming the pavement.
the angels must put down their arms
or surely I will lose my head again.
vous perdrez que vous dirigez. écoutez!
listen! shut up! ferme votre cuntish bouche.
repent or lose you head again and again
swallowing your words for eternity
jamais gâteau. jamais!
jamais! je suis finis.
NOTE: This poem came from reading this article and folds in some recent thoughts I'd been having about Ann Romney. http://www.theweek.co.uk/europe/46363/race-row-swedish-minister-cuts-cake-shaped-african-woman
Saturday, April 14, 2012
on cadmium. slap
sew sequins to discord
name; caress mannequins with
my chainsaw; sing
myself a lullaby;
thumb to tongue suckling;
hug my favorite plushy;
under crimson bankie
drift cozy off to sleep.
(thank you Arizona Women's Health & Safety Act)
Let it be hereby known.
given that every contraceptive device
~ including abstinence ~ has
a scientifically studied failure rate;
and if the age of a fetus
Is defined from two weeks
prior to conception; therefore
every woman with PMS should be treated
as if she were pregnant. the all important
unborn child must be lovingly protected
and accommodated until its existence
is otherwise definitively proven
imaginary. ice cream, candy bars,
chocolate covered tacos,
palak paneer with pad thai on top, grape
Jelly ham and tofu sandwiches must be retrieved
regardless of the absurd nature or time
of the request. be warned midnight, 3AM or 10:00
are now acceptable and legitimate times to request
said fetal supportive requirements regardless of
whether the partner must leave work;
turn off the superbowl; pause a video game,
or leave Hooters during boys night out. failure
to do so can result in charges of child endangerment.
furthermore, let it be known that:
feet, back and shoulders must be rubbed
on command. Also the perineum
without lust, arousal or
demands of a sexual nature. surliness and weepiness
are to be greeted with supportive, loving words.
sudden urges to clean and organize the entire house
are to be greeted with an I can do attitude combined
with a convincingly firm assertion stated
exactly in this manner: “No, no. I can do it.
Put your feet up, relax and direct.
We might just have to worry about junior.”
once a month all year long. until
the moon blesses her body red; the man kneels
weeping praise songs of gratitude to her benevolent
fecund celestial swollen magnificence and joyfully
makes tea, delivers heating pads and ibuprophin
because 5 days is less than 9 months;
he vows to march on the legislature
chanting about rights.
For Brian Springer
1. Fire - Before The Queen’s Fete
movie set sunshine sweats me worse than
that august noon I rode into the desert.
acrobatic medulla oblongata thrust
every urgent elemental rhythm to
cant my temporary flesh
to the scorpions and dung beetles.
even the snakes smell my life
and keep their venom to themselves.
on top of a dune, I watched wind waves
mirage the sand into an evaporating river
of angels abandoning their rippled lives
for a promise. soon I will be
glass. see. the first test ~
stay. surround my deep limbic system
like a shell fortifies the quivering fragile
yolk; coax my mule muscles to run; take off
my jeweled sandals; throw basil on the floor to free
the shrieking spectres ripping the draperies
on my memory. the script
is not a dog chasing its tail. every time
the tale is thrown, it fetches with
simple enthusiasm. adds slobber
or teeth marks. renews. the heart
will be shot in five. I must swallow
this version. smile. when boiled,
this hyperborean black ink
reduces to blood. I am told
freshen up for dinner; that animated
mannequin is the queen; I am
her every loving son and champion.
lies. gritty and shimmering,
every desert secrets the true
heart. remember childish games.
after hide always comes seek.
2. Water - Out Of The False Queen’s Reach
wet dark tangle of trees dripping
moss and vines. stagnant water.
mired and sinking in mud
this swamp does not want me
to move forward, I relieve these supple
boots of my feet. mourning the charade
of a second skin, my feet swell.
this place is the devil. tracking
hoofprints in the mud. I can see
nothing more sinister than a grazing
goat, mud slumbering sow, piglets yanking
swollen teats, lowing calf begging milk
to fill the spaces between rib
bones, dirt scratching chickens, swinging
dead gator. ignore me. from a barren tree’s water
twisted limbs, there is no wind forcing
colored glass incantations. bind me. chant,
there is no just passing through
here. in the splintered doorway
of a worn clapboard house with its matching
toothless old woman. black beaded eyes on my bare
feet, matted hair, torn refinement taking
inventory. detached and calculated as my mother
always did. my skin twitches like an army of ants
has invaded. and retreats as her sturdy clawed
hand like a broom pushing me towards
the steps. her skin a myrrh scented map
marked by each surveilled odyssey. lines
end in cicatrix or interrupted by freckle
or mole. she knows the hunt. the vessel failing,
falling or filled like those pious bottles remember
pouring out huzzah! content now to plink
their prayers. she kisses
both cheeks. gently lifts my eyelids
whispers at the iris. blows the whites
ignores the pupil. presses my chin down to examine
my tongue, she clucks disapprovingly.
holds my sword hand open,
yellow nail traces the palm.
her voice scratches my ear drums,
bones have no flesh
cards are just
paper flapping. lips
or inter spirit.
flesh is free.
turn back. I
move backwards. swift
as a water moccasin, she slides in front of me.
pinches dirt into parchment, squeezes out one tear,
spits, sprinkles bitter herbs, then folds, turns it
each time the crease facing her.
packet to pocket. remember
anyone can rip the soul out
of a body. few can return it.
and then I am running and tripping
over Mangrove roots. a jabiru startles
screeching to the sky. what that
old woman said, what that old woman
is what that old woman said.
(This is the reason I haven't been posting. I can't finish this section.)
3. Air - Hunting For The Queen
finally, leaves make lace of light, thinning
trees reveal corpulent clouds purposeful
as a trundling chancellor delivering sour advice
above a bright alfalfa field like a ballroom
with swaying crepe paper poppies, garish sunflowers,
purple thistles prickling solidarity, fragile white cosmos
quiver as lazy Painted Ladies push proboscis deep tasting
their nectar, the humming muscles of a doe
relax. I have no bow. I am hungry.
my filthy skin itches more than that churning
organ. entranced. to see the entire sun!
damp wicks away as I walk. my clothes
stiffen. grass prickles. the dew renews, I kneel.
taste the fresh. beneath
relief, my mother scratches my
hippocampus like swallowing a diamond.
waiting for it to pass without tearing
and leaking, oozing detritus and freeing
that hot pressed sparkling precious bone
to stop my heart. I am being
watched. sunlight on a telescope lens reveals
a blind in the tree line. a dainty verdigris cooper castle
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
(I interrupt my NaPoWriMo flow with this important request to the universe.)
my son, he looks
like some of you. has crackling
synapses quick with connections
an orchid against a backdrop
70 years too early. dots
most of us disregard. or wllfull
disregard rhythm With Beats And
Angles, Tones and Tints.
You can hear
the binary pattering
of angel bytes.
and bits mumuring hush.
shhh, shades that color
the truth with gesso.
show me how light
slips through and vibrant
pigments can not be subdued
I know you can see me,
that walk free murderer, and
understand what to do. my son
looks like Trayvon Martin,
too. I believe in justice.
one of the many
who loves you.
NOTE: George Zimmerman, the man who shot Trayvon Martin has put up a website asking for donations. In his words, "any funds provided are used only for living expenses and legal defense, in lieu of my forced inability to maintain employment." Yesterday, his site crashed because the servers couldn't handle the hits after MSNBC reported the story. Trayvon Martin was an unarmed 17 year old African American boy returning home form a convienance store.
Thursday, April 05, 2012
4. Earth ~ Rescuing The Queen
arrive ~ with worn soles, dusty homespun
frayed ecru, full of holes and dagger
lost ~ at the stone fortress she greets
me at the thick nail
studded, iron bar door. blue
and green tapestries adorn
her paper doll body. fingers play
her thigh allegro con dolore. eyes child
wide with secrets. no tell,
no tell, just read my pupil.
follow the optic nerve to the moving
picture library of arbitrary flash
backs burning. longer.
better than Un Chien Andalou,
catalog worse than the razor calmly
slicing the eye; an ant holes in wounded
palm; the mouth wiped away
by a the back of a hand;
waist deep in sand, bodies buried
look toward the tide. then leave her
organized, safe. once you’ve seen the
flickering; heard the slapping scream
soundtrack of a silent movie in your head.
she is safer here in the cold stone fortress.
when the turquoise limousine strains
up the switch back mountain road.
the stiff spine woman in black jerkily gets out.
ignore the fish wire strings when she beckons.
the painted smile is real. accept. you owe
her your fealty and honor. she loves
you. raised you once as her very own
in sunshine defiant of shadow.
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
leave no footprints on the stone
sill or door jam fingerprints.
pass through the ivy
covered stucco house,
wisteria burdened garden
gate ajar, for safe passage
entreat the raspberry
the hill. flesh releases
crushed thyme’s salivating
promise to feast. on
muscles and sinew. push
and press; inhale the sage
scented scythe moon,
do not stop for poppy reminders
of sunrise. stroke the lock of hair
in your rough spun linen pocket.
finger the cutting you took from her
slumbering fancy. to hold me. red clay
dust your feet on the hunter’s track;
dandelion your bitter tongue to clean
your slow heart; run through the oak,
birch and evergreens. if
the hollies are berried, the sexes are
content. cut a sprig of rosemary. slip
behind. the pyramid mausoleum, dash
across the ribbon called creek to the squat
round stone tomb. through the iron ring
window, steal a vision
of the virgin still beneath the black rose
shroud on hard stone, under silken robe.
three times round the stone, identical
sets of prints like dried blood chant
about narrow slender feet dancing
before she went inside and laid down.
to enter, place your feet on her dusty remains.
the other way walk. imprint your wet terra cotta
mud tracks on her remnants three times round. until the latch
clicks. hinges sigh. door creaks
open. approach the stiff. knife ready
to sacrifice yourself, cut your own.
with rosemary, braid the lock to yours.
peer through her outer ear maze,
across the eardrum tautly stretched,
pass the ever ready hammer,
to see her mind. take the silver cross from her
upturned right hand. the cowrie shell
from under her left
palm. kiss the twisted union
of your drama. place it between her breasts.
wait. her eyelids may shiver. hands
spasm struggle to clench the token.
leave her in starlight green as tombstones,
I will. now that you are bound. who I was crumbles
as I rise. notice the comets in my eyes .
NOTE: This is a revision. And whilst we are supposed to write a new poem everyday, I figured this fit the spirit of NaPoRiMo, in that I devote such little time to making hard, tough, calculated edits on my poems. I tend to write, re-write, re-write again and then leave my poems for dead in the graveyard of my hard drive. So, from time to time this month, I shall resurrect a few of the elusive ones which always seem to get away from me and yet simultaneously haunt me.