Silence chokes upon
Cheap french bread, long-gone
Stale as a poor girls
The body politik spins
And here we sit with sugar
And frothy cappuccino — pontificate,
Satiated but ever in need
For truths and lines that bleed — addicted.
Where do we bury the hatchet?
That bloody stump? Or in our bed?
Silence provokes, but the song
A country falls
And infinite planets newly numbered
Fills ones heart with stories
And depths unplundered — a cheap rhyme but, I promise,
I’ll get better with time — won’t you
Let me back in?
We spice the air
of immigrants long-dead
with our pithy laughter
where once a slaughter spread —
This moment, this moment
of shared love in a smile
infinitely incongruent with history,
buried in layers beneath our feet.
The voice of my Nana’s Mother a phantom call :
Valentina Yturino, what would you make of me?
I sip upon the places your feet once tread;
I sup upon wine of the old-vine,
tasting of toasted Cuban bread
buttered just-so, dipped into coffee milky-sweet.
These cobblestone streets
echo that old Jim Crow jazz
that taught her generation to swing,
now so much novelty
what was once a riot rebellion.
How easily we rest our memory
of the auld lang syne
and all that old nonsense.
A repetitive motion,
a knee-jerk reaction toward
historic horror stories that yield,
as flesh to the sword, comforts moderne
and cheeses divine. My tongue,
olive brined, wags philosophic as
ghosts trudge all around, tied to the promise
of a new dream. Sunk into the earth
like Mr. Henry B. Plant’s railroad ties,
I am left to wondering : Do scars long-faded
dictate all future paths?
The memory of blood, a spiraling path,
is ever the tie that binds. Slates may be scrubbed,
but can never be entirely cleaned.
… re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.
But why should that surprise?
The boys they ate her
and still, no one cared.
Well isn’t that clever?
He writes pretty words
though oceans’ soughing
confirms, dear; affirms
the amorphous, the terrible
deep-down True — Ain’t
nay’er an ear listening — so
Shred you words
and give them to the Sea!
Salt your heart
and feed the Krill — watch as
petty sentiment sinks
b’neath the moody face,
washing all slates clean.
on the floor, unencumbered
unnumbered dreams scatter
as dustmotes drifting —
the ravenous heap of
blind dogs raving —
and the fight begins
Blood, blood in the water
for Orca and Shark, Skate and Fin.
Hopes like chum
spread with a liberal hand
spawn the wildest beasts:
Hunger swims forth from the deep,
an open maw swallowing intuition.
Comfort then glides forth,
the quiet shadow that snuffs the flame.
Love, too, our eternal foe :
rising from the night. He
steals the wind from the glaciers’ face
and churns the baitfish from below. Unfettered,
as ever, the predators spiral inward :
Ghosts like always
take us from below.
Something that strikes me as funny: Blaming one man for the inexcusable inability of 535 other people to come to an agreement. A captain might lead a ship and set the course, but when the crew refuses to do their jobs and pull the oars (but are all fully expecting future promotions), guess what? Your ship’s dead in the water.
I suppose it would stand to reason that if you wanted to stage a mutiny, refusing to follow orders is the place to start, but ships that stand still in the sea tend to drift into the path of a storm. But who cares, right? You ruined the captain’s reputation and ordered him over the metaphorical plank, so all your problems will magically fix themselves.
Afterall, lit powder kegs never explode, yeah? Yeah…
I am constantly bombarded
by the thought that
to everyone, I am
His tail twitches
and the cat is in my drink
(a little bourbon con cafe
to set the day a’right);
two hairs bob and sink
in place of errant cubed ice…
Never one to insult
a proper pour, I sketch a kneel
and the Beasts’ green-eyed stare flickers :
No insult meant and no harm done
I swig, none too proud to sup
from b’soiled troff. A proper
philosophic pig unawares,
blue-sullen-boy too often,
unable to see… Do I live the dream
or does it live me?
So… my second collection of poetry/art, ‘Scotch Mist’, is finally ready for release. I had been fighting for months with the html formatting in order to publish through Kindle, when my much-smarter boyfriend said, “Why don’t you just use iBooks?”
I said, ”Well… sure”, and did just that; it ceased to be an issue. So yay… my new book will be out September 4th, 2013, beautifully formatted and illustrated for the ipad. Your excitement is palpable. I can feel it.