Halp! I need something new to read. I’m finishing up Gore Vidal’s ‘Lincoln’ now, and need something a little… lighter.
Oh, it’s ugly alright.
She’s dangling promises from her toes
On cheap high-heels as
He plays victim to his Daddy’s sin.
They both got money
But ain’t no one believing
Love has a dime to spare.
And here I sit with two-penny pockets
And nothing but pity for the world,
Salting my tea. Jealous heart, Uncanny me,
Astride the tallest of horses
(Awful, awful animals, them)
On this cobble-stone street replete with
Faulty hearts and glamour-trash fashion
Soaked in cheap piss beer and bummed cigarettes
There rings a rat, a tattle; a plain snare drum
With tromboned buskers playing solely for the bums —
Each with a hand outstretched
And sad-sack story eyes, you watch
As strangers walk by with an apologetic shake
Of a sympathetic head. No one’s got any money
But every one a thirty-thousand-dollar-millionaire,
All haughty hawk profiles and milquetoast etiquette —
"How much sugar comes from the fruit,
and how much do you add in?”
"All our drinks are made with the ripest
market produce, fresh every day.”
"Does fruit have a lot of sugar in it?"
"The sweeter the fruit, the higher the sugar content."
"So, the better it tastes, the worse it is."
And so it goes.
Tomorrow, the starving children
Plagued by war and first century non-sense : Today,
A fresh fruit smoothie to feel thin fit ness.
Tomorrow, a new invasion
Of some human law sacrosanct : Today,
We’ll nip, and tuck, and suction every flaw.
Too keenly we feel the subtlest slights,
And on such a lovely day. The Ybor roosters
Crow and cock strut assuredly beneath
A banner blue sky July. AH ha!huhhahahaaa!
Laugh the feathered jester’s; laughed the slaves
As each whip-crack fell; as each railroad tie sank;
As each murdered body was bathed before the dirt.
The weak, oh, those meager meek,
Inherit little more than our suffering : Preyed upon
And prayed over, the lions gather the lambs
And legislate freedom into oblivion.
Around the corner, a terrible version of
The ‘Pink Panther’ theme song is played
In staccato, halting paces : Each person pauses,
Cocks a confused dogs’ head, and listens
To the awkward tune.
Watching a live stream of the courts’ decision on what rights I have, and if I’ll be allowed to marry the man who owns my heart so completely.
Democracy in the digital age…
The world fires
beneath a bullet boot : Cocked
and cold-clocked Tuesday on the chin :
Out cold and the innocent are screaming
out in the street, fire hydrant streaming.
The world fires
and I turn a page, too damned hot outside
this urbane downtown cafe.
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.