Orchard Beach A crescent on the Sound, Built by the WPA. It welcomes the Bronx On this sunny day in May. Black, white, Latino, Working and middle class. Boomboxes and bagels Together in our masks. The Corona Portal “Historically, pandemics have forced humans to break with the past and imagine their world anew. This one is no different. It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight for it.” Arundhati Roy In this cold, virus spring Is hand washing enough? Have we humans more to give? Is there a new song to sing. Perhaps, but not in the way we’ve been taught. No matter what our shamans, the scientists, say, They cannot explain, much less control What nature has wrought. Do we have the courage to set aside the ways of old? Take a deep breath; And do something bold. Together! RiverThe river was
A pallet of Light and shadow. Barges slow Cliffs glow Winds blow. Bright light air tight. Let’s go.
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Since in truth people are not cylinders nor the other way ‘round we ought not to pretend it our veins are blue; full of blood – our veins don’t take in even scant fuel tanks & it’s scandalous for the polyps to suggest it Electricity doesn’t: animate limbs Frankenstein’s creation: was monstrous & didn’t require a bride to wed it Beautiful skin is not like porcelain – nor like alabaster – it’s like skin it’s meant to be like skin Geography Lesson Let’s join this field trip to Kosmodrom Baykonur A launch center in southern Kazakhstan’s desert steppe where the winds can comfort or distress depending on their pathways Perhaps the name Kosmodrom Baykonur was selected to deceive the Western Bloc by telegraphing its location 320 kilometers northeast (to a mining town of that name) of its true location but the cresentoid-shaped spaceport near Leninsk isn’t lost. It’s east of the Aral Sea, north of the Syr Darya River surrounded by plains which please the radio signals and their démodé preferences for uninterrupted spaces near the equator which endows greater velocity into the ICBMs to-be-launched from the waist of the spinning-earth where Afanasiy Ilich Tobonov found paths of mass wildlife deaths exactly drawn on the flight paths of wind-borne rockets Deer had been incinerated and the people of Eliptyan became cancerous from the rocket fuel. So did Tobonov. Those deaths and their causes: another series of lost things – but the spilled rocket fuel wasn’t lost; it blew its way into arteries and bones And as our field trip scuttles back to school we’ll pass fields of spent launch equipment which the local population salvages thereby spilling rocket fuel where it doesn’t belong Kosmos-21 She whom Americans call ‘Cosmos 21’ ascended heavenward from Kosmodrom Baykonur on (the American’s) Veteran’s Day in 1961 and while the name Космодро́м Байкону́р may have been selected for deception purposes Kosmos 21 wasn’t concerned with secrecy. She was concerned with staying aloft as she careened around Earth gathering momentum, but her orbit decayed slightly, then more noticeably. Three days later she flatlined. We’re not even sure whether she was meant to attempt a Venus flyby or not. She’d been as shrouded in Soviet secrecy as her launch site and by now perhaps they’ve forgotten her altogether. Maybe she was intended from the beginning to remain in a geocentric orbit – a ‘parking orbit’ – which makes it sound pedestrian – but a polished metal handiwork carried by her own velocity and spinning through space tethered only by the gravity of us (the mass of us) is far from pedestrian – a tether ready to snap She stalled, lessening, then punctured the atmosphere, and came back hot Slim Buttes Sonnet (1876) We, when Crazy Horse had vanished away chased him. September. Then came stagnation which clenched us and held. Until – starvation “Men eating their mules,” newspapers portrayed Entered crooked buttes after the sun’s banked Viewed campfires which glowed against shallow clouds “Let’s crawl towards the tipis, wrapped up in shrouds Squint, mutter softly, count warriors encamped” Mills, hours later (night greyed towards a dawning) Split our men into fourths; stealth was required to best hidden foes encircled by spires Village of families, doors facing east Closed, snug, dreaming, awoke to sulfur thick American Horse shot in the stomach Estate Planning
Her property emulsified behind her very eyes with the realization that her wiccan spell royalties might be trickier to devise than she’d originally anticipated Non-probate avenues to consider; Angles to take stock of; The right wording of the thing Should the gift be conditioned – Will the devisee accept it some time after the donor is cremated – Ought she to die intestate – Will other expectancies be roiled / calamitous soiled / cantankerous? What of lapse; of loved ones who refused to die in the correct sequence? How about abatement; of creditors consuming legacies as if they were candy corn? problematic-postmortem-presents, these The ink on the testatrix’s papers ‘twas still wet when she realized her mistake
hatch truth in the morning, slit throats by night submerged, emerging encased in amber sheen no longer all run they’re waiting—no, hiding hiding from the wings of truth that bear upon their back lady insanity herself to her steel-claw snares snapping ankles and bring unawares to their knees born a beggar, die a beggar, she’ll croon drawing her fingers across their dewy brows in the mirrors of her eyes, they will see watch as their own reflection draws a knife glorious it would be, to be wind oh—to be the lady of the skies’ broom, to sweep clouds and birds across the blue to dance around [half eaten] pears lying in the street and to twist a young girls hair so that she swears on the existence of fairies (much to the exasperation of her stiff-necked mother) to cast idiotic grins on the faces of dreamers out on solitary, never lonely, strolls to be the forecast of weather and change and everything in between to watch children crawl into adult shells whose hats beg to be whipped up and away as their owners give chase through busy sidewalks finally with their heads higher than their spick-and-span dress shoes and to know of all the secrets whispered by desperate people from open windows on moving trains oh—to be wind, jester and king of the air to the little girl who was teaching her parents |
Mr. Martin's writings have appeared in; "Universal Oneness" and "Taj Mahal Review," two anthology books from India, "Alive Now," 'Mature Years, "Poets'Espresso," among others. He won two "Faith and Hope" poetry awards and published two chapbooks. He is also a pianist and the organist at First UMC of Wind Gap, PA for the past 27 years. His main writing influences are Kahlil Gibran and Pablo Neruda; Kahlil for his wisdom and prose, and Pablo for his wildness. |
Wings of Inspiration
beauty in flight and rivers in motion,
doors swinging open for the pure air,
clarity speaking in a familiar tongue,. divinity opening up its heart,
sending secrets through the skies,
the birth of the planets,
the texture of the rings of Saturn,
how it feels against the skin,
writing them down and
attaching them to the wings of the doves,
circling above with their eyes wide open,
purifying the air above the chimneys,
breathing in the aroma of the Jasmine,
keeping love pure on its earthly journey,
the knowledge of its divine source,
how it flows through winding rivers,
why it ends up in certain places
answering spiritual needs
or landing upon insensitive surfaces,
how it materializes in certain objects,
how it invigorates the spirit
of some but not in all,
how it gives life to a song, a poem,
or speaks through a rainbow or
the eyes of a woman,
how it teases the mind and
rides up and down the electric spine,
taking the spirit on a merry romp,
smiling, laughing, playing, crying,
riding to the ends of passion,
the flying back to that
wonderful place where it came from
too soon, too fast, too impatiently,
too abrupt, too detached,
but with its taste still in our hearts.
House of the Tempest
down below Davy Jones's locker
where inferno fires rage,
stoked by the hands of the beast
in the house of the tempest,
the catacombs of the dead,
the temple of the unholy,
Satan attired in a black hooded alb
with scull and crossbones
engraved in blood,
assembles and anoints
his disciples with oils extracted
from the fields of Sodom,
showing the way up to the rafters,
up through the unholy ground,
into the tranquil seas
and up to the fragile skies.
Armored warriors ride
on iron clad Pegasus
dressed in black capes,
brandishing their bloody spears,
galloping along the firmament,
assembling the clouds together
with their booming megaphones.
"Hear ye, hear ye,
clouds in your homes,
children of the skies,
serpents above the seas,
unleash thy wicked side.
Let your wind and rains wreak
havoc upon the seafarers below.
Do not lighten up until
the last man has succumbed
to the deadly waters
and hath visited the
glorious temple of the unholy
and has become forever a
disciple of our beloved Lucifer."
Museum
Formed by the sun and clouds in haste
Paintings hung on the walls of the firmament
Filling the skies as a sacred enlightenment
Works assembled for the poetic eyes
Of beauty portrayed as beauty lies
Morning's brightness peeking through
Skies of black and pink and blue
A canvas suspended above the mighty earth
Erected by mystic hands to now from birth
Colors arrayed in a dreamy sequence
From a mind beyond artistic excellence
A poetic drifting of the mind and body
An exotic feeling of joy and melancholy
An intensive pleasure in the heart and soul
A feeling of the inner self in control
A truth that beauty has an influential voice
That speaks in the spirit as the heavens rejoice
Museums of the skies in thy poetic splendor
Come forth to my eyes I to thee surrender
Myself of skin and bones and earthly mind
To thy face and everything that lies behind
Trumpets of Passion
in the melodic heart
and lovely mind,
primal voices under
the direction of divine grace,
harps of heaven,
angelic trumpets,
melted violins, crimson sunsets,
glassy seas, shooting stars
out in deep space,
nature's mystic land,
heaven's breath traveling
through the walls of time,
home of the melodic heart,
a garden of the Jasmine
blowing the sweet scent
that rises into the fragile air
and rides with the zephyrs,
compiling airy thoughts,
of mellifluous portrayals of heaven,
the blending of the poetic heart,
wolves of the wild and quiet lambs,
the passion and
the running of passion,
of whispered melodies
and dexterous fingers
caressing the valves, the slaves
of the trumpet,
carrying the sound to open places,
sweeter than the sound that entered,
converting the beautiful
into the extraordinary,
the trumpet and the man
and the conversion of
heavenly thoughts.
Oh sweet sound,
oh that sweet sound.
Bestial Cannon Balls
bestial cannon balls,
virions of the devil's army
of microscopic proportions,
fired from the battlefields
from unholy
CoronaVirus cannons,
invisible warfare,
breaking the rules of war,
hideous looking globes
of an ashen colored body
that reeks of rotted flesh
with bloody red flowery spikes
on the opposite ends
of the penetrating nibs
that are stuck in the
heart of the devil's oleander,
scattered throughout the
fields of protein lumps,
sucking up the venom inside,
the tongue of the beast
lapping up his diabolic juice,
his deadly ammunition,
the works of the
devil's advocates
sewn on demonic looms
in the house of evil
with rose colored
bushes protruding
like patterned dresses
of the whores,
the unholy angels
who flutter through the
pure air made impure,
the microscopic
cannon balls that land
in the lungs and steal the air
until man's final breath passes
through the mortal gates.
Young Man, I Think I Know You
1.
Beginnings
about fourteen,
she was child, woman, and angel, as she walked slowly down the street, glancing up from her
book
occasionally to see where she was going. the sun flickered through the rustling leaves of the big elms, a bird chirped, a car hummed loudly a few blocks away, and she read
aloud
but to herself, a corny poem about “Father” when, looking up, she saw an old man on a porch, watching, and she stopped but only for a moment
then her soft voice joined the leaves and the bird and the car once again with “Father”
2.
Piki Days
the three Indians staggered from the bar out into the arizona sun, reeling with arms about each others’ shoulders like drunken sailors on the desert
they were short and stocky and very dark with full flat faces and
burning
black eyes and they spoke navajo and laughed their way around a corner but one returned alone and the others followed and he hit one of them and they all wore a lot of silver and turquoise
3.
What We Have Here
four years they had known each other and one they had been engaged and you know they loved each other very much they were going to be married soon
they knew all about each other she knew he didn’t like pickles and wanted to believe in god but couldn’t and he knew she liked monet and was afraid of escalators
they were just sitting there listening to music and looking at each other and loving without touching or speaking and all of a sudden he wanted to recite some
byron he liked byron and he associated some of the poems with her and he knew them by heart he wanted to but he couldn’t and she said want some coffee and he said
yes thanks
4.
The Robbed
joe’s father was a doctor and joe was in college and he had it made, he had money and clothes and girls but he never had a reason to
smile
until he robbed a gas station wednesday morning early
5.
There Was A Man In Our Town
he said
there was a man in our town who was very rich but kind of weird
i mean he was odd homer wilkie was his name
he owned the lumber industry that our town was based on and a lot of other factories some said even in france and guatemala but he looked like he never
brushed his teeth
and he traveled all over the world buying objects dart as our newspaper calls them paintings and statues and such
and would never let anyone see them ever and when he died and they went into that big house they couldnt find any of the objets but later they found a note saying that he burned them all but some folks think theyre still hid
and i always thought he mustuv been a nut that hated art but john freedman whos about the smartest guy in town said i was all wrong
6.
Greensleeve Mirage
everyone at college knew about gracie but no one had ever seen her
gracie, the fraternity cook and freelance whore; everyone had a friend who had been with her of course and
everyone at college knew about gracie but no one had ever seen her
7.
Death and Burial
there was a little boy a good little boy who went with mommy to grandmas and saw something shiny
there it was a big safety pin with a lot of little safety pins attached so gram could find them easily and he
put them into his pocket
although he had no use for safety pins or pressure cookers or recapped tires but they were shiny and jingled and he just did it and when mommy found out she said why thats
stealing
take them back and tell gram youre sorry and when they had steak that night he didnt eat much and steak never tasted too good for many years after
8.
Someday Soon Darkness
the bar was almost empty dark in the daytime
charley pride on the jukebox
and dannys head was low over his beer
from sorrow
from pain
he stared head low shoulders over in pain he stared
the three young people burst in long haired boys fresh and saucy girl for a six pack from the daylight
and when they saw danny they couldnt help it
together
they laughed
out of the daylight seeing danny they laughed
words written through me
northern blonde woman with electric face
old cool dank stone farmers’ market of long ago
Sensitivity
Is my most important moment
(Gliding above, the smoke:
Now mobile lines of free flow art),
As is the squeak of my shoe
And the sound of a pencil sharpener:
Stills from a movie,
Drops from the river,
Each perfect and perpetual.
L.A. Storm
and the Alaskan summer sky is light.
Soon the sun will rise.
My calendar is two days late
and I’m not sure where I’m at.
My life is filled with little delights--
address labels, new music, and photographs to come,
with a hint of a woman in the background.
But, like the pale forty-ninth sky,
there is no intensity,
only a haze of contentment better sacrificed
even to the biting pain of a more real existence…
perhaps?
I’m thinking of one woman and another.
Soon the sun will rise.
ambulance driver
wielding
a blunt instrument
Sinchan Chatterjee is an Indian author and poet, whose works have featured in several magazines, journals and newspapers both in India and abroad, including 'The Statesman', 'Muse India', 'Erothanatos', 'Spillwords', 'Pegasus', 'The Literary Yard', and 'Mark Literary Review', among others. He is the winner of the Penguin Random House Essay Competition and a number of other poetry writing competitions. His books include "War of the Roses" (2020), "Plato in a Metro" (2019), and "In Search of a Story" (2017). https://sbabuasa.wixsite.com/sinchan |
Chimney-sweeper
And ask to be lowered again.
I hang in the air
And wipe the four sides of the walls with care:
One layer at a time.
I sing myself a song
As I go lower and lower,
Starting from the top
Scratching the surface,
Every day I see new depths
I scrub and scrub,
I toil and toil.
Sometimes I get crushed
Between the narrowing walls.
Someday I will reach the bottom
Having swept it clean
All the way to the ground.
I am journeying through my mind
And all the darkness that has gathered
From years of ungrateful, exhausting use.
I run my fingers gently
And dream of buried memories.
Nothing passes here except for fire
Nothing stays except for soot and ash.
See-saw
(In me)
Play see-saw all day
To see which one outweighs the other:
The human self sins and repents,
And the God self forgives and smiles
And washes the slate clean;
It's a ritual. They do it every day.
Until one day
The weight of the sins is so heavy,
It dries up all the mercy
In God's pocket,
And with a dull thud
The human side
Crashes onto the ground,
Then into it,
And digs a hole -- so deep
It reaches the womb of Brahma.
On the other end of the see-saw,
With the supplicant's sacrifice
On bowed knees
At His altar,
The God
Rises
And soars
Until the sun
Is a halo around his head.
The Eternal Postman
A parcel I must deliver
A letter I must carry
In my beak
From the past
To the future
The only time I can call my own
Is between the picking up
Of the feathery gift
And the setting down
Of the wingéd weight.
Under the Broken Bridge
In the shady corner under the half-broken bridge.
No vehicles pass through anymore.
He has felt the pulse of the city throbbing through its veins,
Now numbed, now dead.
He sees another diabolic lash of the cosmic fang
As a lightning flash lights up the world in violet.
He prays and waits for the dark to return, like for an old friend.
He wishes to be forgotten, drenched or drowned.
The first drop leaks through the crack and shuts his eye blind
He goes to sleep without praying for tomorrow.
In his next birth, he hopes to be a crop
So the sky can be his roof and he may learn to love the rain.
Waking up
After a night of dreaming
Which seems like a few seconds in Paradise.
Like bird-shit, I find myself
Dropped on earth again
(Enacting a daily lapse) ---
I collapse into a sanity that seems mad to me.
Afraid of being seen naked
And terrified of not being seen at all,
I wear my language like a robe:
Recall the sound of words and greetings and
Brush my smile and take on my body
I put my muscles to ignition and
Drive myself to the car
I console myself with photographs of my forefathers
Who found solace in this daily trade
And would be proud of me if they were here.
On my way to work
I mourn the freedom of those who sleep all day
In railway platforms and under road-bridges,
As I hawk my madness bit by bit:
I dig drains to guide its flow into a sanitary pit.
I bury my screams in jokes and dreams
To remember I am sane.
Elizabeth Fletcher’s poems have appeared in The Schuylkill Valley Journal, The Scarlet Leaf Review, the anthology Lost Orchard, the Plum Tree Tavern and Ariel Chart. Several of her nature essays have been published in The Philadelphia Inquirer. She is a co-author of research publications in the medical education field and for many years, wrote and edited materials for a medical education company. She has a BA in English from Hamilton College, and an MS in Technical Communication from Drexel University. She is currently a free-lance writer living in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. |
Five O’clock Slide
through the sandbar
swings sideways into the pier
engines clunking
First of the afternoon boats
Two men in yellow rubber hip waders
scrungy knit caps pulled over red burned ears
shovel sea bass dripping ice
into elevator buckets for the slide
down steel chutes to market
Three sleek, fat pinniped boys
Radar whiskers humming
Torpedo through dappled water
Up pop heads
Sea dark liquid eyes scan
The boys are on the prowl
A deck hand tosses a fish head
One seal rises like a kelpie
from the bay
snaps with needle teeth
Gets only air
A Laughing gull wheels
screaming insults
Soars with the prize
The gray seal flips and rolls
Now the crew brooms blood and guts
down the deck
The gunnels run pink and salty
The kelpie
muscles out his wingmen
to get at the back of the boat
Slides under the gunnel hose
mouth agape
for the shooting blood, guts and brine
Whiskers quiver
Long-lashed sea dream eyes close
Blissed out by
Five o’clock fishtini
On the restaurant deck above
A pink-cheeked woman in a floppy straw hat
gets it all on video
Her five o’clock martini
olive dirty
slides ice cold down her throat
Ode to a Garter Snake
in your sunny spot
basking
fueling for spring
The mail man has stepped over you
unseeing
The sniffing dog has passed by
this morning
pulled along by his leash
His bark has not moved you
The six-year-old boy who brandishes sticks
is at school
He will not poke you
Today
The straw-hatted woman
is in the back garden planting pansies
She’s unearthed a toad
She will not shriek at you
Today
You gave me an electric thrill
Just now
The gold and green ribbon of you
Lying unfurled
beside my flagstone path
You beguile me
though you are called common
Your round black eyes shine
Your scales gleam
Perhaps you are hunting
Listening for the rustle of a vole
Or like me, you are yearning
For the end of freeze warning nights
and early darkness
Yearning for hot sun on your face
Craving the peace of just a few
moments
to be
I sit on a rock beside you
You don’t slither away
or strike me with your venom
Today,
you and I are
together, alone
Quietly
Warming in the vernal sun
Hooked
the crooked come on smile
Captain Hook didn’t get it
That croc only wanted to wrap him up
in Wrestle Mania arms
Lay her snout in the pirate’s lap
Inches from his crotch
Captain Hook
Only heard the slithering in dark waters
The ticking clock
Felt the clammy breath
Smelled the swamp
Inches from his face
Hook didn’t want to
snuggle
on the couch
Watch the
Wilde beast snapped up
Devoured in HD
That croc only wanted to
wrestle
Tickle his funny bone
With a prehistoric claw
Croon a love song
Inches from his ear
Captain Hook didn’t get
The vibe
The scene
The Jurassic cool
Inches from his throat
Photo Op
Beaver pops up
Slaps tail
Photographer slips in mud
Solitary Reflections
human being, no matter what his crime. Hardened criminals in the
men's prisons, it is said, often beg for the lash instead’.
Emmeline Pankhurst (1858-1928)
I am a prisoner to ceaseless night,
A torment without end or beginning,
Everything is suffused with pain,
My heart is a bare hinterland,
Utterly empty and vacuous,
As my mind splinters like glass,
There is no consolation,
Silence is my only witness,
It offers no companionship,
I pray for sweet oblivion,
The cold comfort of death,
Signals an end to my misery.
Capitalist Absurdity
who does absolutely nothing that is useful to amass a fortune of
hundreds of millions of dollars, while millions of men and women
who work all the days of their lives secure barely enough for a
wretched existence’.
Eugene Debs
Amidst the grinding mills of capital,
Hours of hard and solemn toil,
Crush the spirit of the working man,
Progress is an unjustifiable crime,
Its fruit is nothing but avarice and greed,
But there are no murmurs of discontent,
The working man has sold his soul,
To the idol of bourgeois prosperity,
Though it is doubtful if he will ever claim it,
There is no promise of redemption,
Perhaps it is better this way,
Hope cuts too close to the bone,
Absurdity fills the spiritual abyss,
When reality is phantasmagoria,
Civilization reveals its madness.
Evening Meditation
Samuel Beckett
Consciousness thickens like fog,
So dense and oppressive,
I close my eyes and meditate,
Utterly dead to the world,
Witness to pure silence,
Calm finality and oblivion,
The eternal and starless night,
Surpasses all understanding,
Unburdened of being and time,
I am relieved of my suffering.
The Kingdom of the Clouds
Lying under a sun-drenched sky,
Utterly glorious and heavenly,
Observing the feathery white clouds,
I awaken to the promise of enchantment,
Within this blessed and golden realm,
Where the soul calls to higher things,
I am left to contemplate all things,
In awe and deep thankfulness.
Greg Wilder (also known by the stage name Slay! the Dragon) is an award-winning writer, full-time student, and spoken word performer, currently residing in Schenectady, N.Y. After a long, downhill battle with alcohol and drug addiction, Greg entered treatment in June of 2017 and rediscovered the therapeutic potential of art and writing. Today, with over 3 years clean, Greg shares the healing power of poetry with other recovering addicts as an intern for a drug and alcohol treatment center. Greg studies Human Services and English at SUNY Schenectady. |
“If That Plane Leaves the Ground and You’re Not with Him, You’ll Regret It…”
(or: “We’ll Always Have Hampton Manor”)
Of My Heart still remain –
On the underside of the Garbage Disposal
Into which it was poured,
From that Blender on the Kitchen Counter
Of some Girl's house back in
East Greenbush.
My Soul, is on a piece of paper –
Probably still in some drawer
Or a Shoebox –
After selling it to a Friend
Sometime back in 2004 –
For a Beef Patty
And a Cigarette.
My Life that I sacrificed
To Heroin –
Pierced through the Flesh –
Crucified on a Cross of
Diabetic Insulin Needles –
3rd Day Naloxone Resurrection.
But what none of them actually knows,
Is they only accepted the fakes –
The real ones I hide,
Here in my mind,
Where nobody ever can take.
Still Point Retreat Center
August 25, 2018
Killer Frost
Of both Fire and Ice.
Diving deep into the Glacial Pools of those cool
Blue Eyes that Chill me to the bone.
Beauty that hits me like Arctic Air
Traveling on Western Winds.
12,799 Miles of Lonely Earth rolling between us.
At times, I can feel your pain, from a country away.
Raging Wild Winter Fire,
California Girl – My Khaleesi –
I, am the Dragon. And you, are my Princess.
Moon of my Life – My Sun and Stars.
The Universe displayed its aptitude for Art,
On the night, it drew the two of us together.
Schenectady
November 9, 2017
My Nature
Is what comes to mind as I stand here at Still Point
Staring up into space – Feeling somewhat out of place.
I'm not used to being in Nature –
I'm not used to such sounds of silence.
Not even in my own mind.
I'm used to 3 AM neighbor screaming matches,
Screeching tires, and Fire and Rescue sirens –
I'm not used to this.
You see, I'm not used to being in Nature –
The only R and R I get is Rehab and Running
From Bus Stop to Bus Stop, From Classes to Court.
The fear of prison system Recidivism Rates.
May I not be another Statistic.
Because Nature for me isn't spiritually serene –
It's Wine and Spirits stores on every street,
The Homeless and Hustlers on every corner.
My Nature isn't Campfires and S'mores or Sleeping Bags and Tents –
My Nature is Dopesick and Poor and Sleeping on a Bench,
Or Slumlord random stop-bys since you’re still late on the rent.
My Nature is Back Alley littered with broken furniture and mattresses.
Garbage Bag Tumbleweeds blowing in the breeze.
My Nature is big dogs barking behind fences at everyone that passes,
Squirrels tearing through all the trashes, and of course
The Raccoon in the Backyard who ran up on our porch
For a pack of Newports and snatched it…
I can't make this kinda shit up by the way,
Cause that ACTUALLY HAPPENED!
My Nature isn't Row Boats, Fishing, Rope Swings and Swimming Holes –
My Nature is the polluted pond in a lower class Suburban Neighborhood
That hasn't been safe to swim in since I was six.
My Nature is a Wilderness of Concrete, Steel,
And Red Brick Low Income Housing Developments –
The unknown, which lies in the Jungle
Of the abandoned building’s lawn next door,
That hasn’t been mowed in 5 months.
My Nature is crowded Cell Block Summer Camp –
I'll be locked in at 10 o’clock in “Cabin #206.”
So as I look around at the forests and farms – I'm not used to all of this…
I'm not used to being in Nature – In case I haven't made that clear,
I'm not used to being in Nature. But I guess it's better than being here...
Hudson Mohawk Supportive Living
August 27, 2018
“Felt cute... Might cut my ear off later and give it to a prostitute... Idk”
(or: Van Gough’s Ear)
I took a selfie today.
But instead of a point and click and switch of light filters -
Mine took hours to master.
And unlike the 15 worthless ones you've Snapped today -
One day mine will sell for Millions!
“Le fou roux”
I am manic and depressive!
“Serpent! Lion noir!”
I've been betrayed and abandoned!
“Sain d'esprit,
Saint Esprit.”
I am St. Peter slicing the appendage,
An Apostle with a rusty razor,
A Prophet with a paintbrush…
“ICTUS! ICTUS!”
The act of a Maniac.
I stagger down to the Rue du Bout D'Arles -
Knock on the door of the brothel,
And request my Rachel,
To give her something to remember me by...
She faints at the sight of my glorious package.
Then it's back to the old Maison Jaun - After another job well done...
To get drunk and pass out in a pool of blood.
Schenectady
May 9, 2019
Entitlement Poem
(Those Middle-Class Millennial Winter Mondays)
In warm comfort of HVAC, two-story, dual income household--
American Dream lived off the sweat of parent’s salaried positions.
Father is already gone – Off to monotonous grind of office job. His boss,
Nor I ever thank him. We only ask for more.
I’ve never known what it’s like to shovel snow from neighbor’s driveways
For a quick 10 bucks to buy action figures or candy. Or having to ration Ramen
Through the week. Bagel Bites and free Wi-Fi. Screaming for Socialism
From Social Media platform. Bernie says “Vote for me”,
Get your money for nothing and your checks for free!
Unaware they even used to play music on MTV – Video star killed by Mp3.
Ignorant of the chronic passive aggressiveness of this house.
Callused thumbs from long X-Box Live afternoons.
What do I know, what do I know
Of perpetual 5 PM traffic jam existence?
Schenectady
March 18, 2020
TULSA INTERNATIONAL
peanuts rattle off tray table to carpet,
navy with crimson spots - blood, boutonniere.
when i called you, dead-weight fingers
gouged in rust-blue phone cord,
i was thinking about the emergency
landing in oklahoma, the man who couldn’t breathe
at thirty thousand feet, the flight attendants
a rolling boil around him. there is the truth,
and here is the romance: i want to be somebody
you’d land a plane for.
maybe if that woman is window-seat kind,
she will let you lean over and
scan the blackened river-veins for me --
always i will be on the runway, orange
wedge smile, signaling your
wheels to asphalt,
fists full of technicolor.
SINGLE MAGPIE IN GLITTER
age ten, i began sucking stones,
meatballs and olive pits of agate.
the beach a bursting maraca,
tulle rustling beneath my sneakers.
i chose only terrestrial
bulbs, ones with rivers, tie-dyed
whirlwinds, like the patchwork quilt
of earth i’ve seen from space.
HUNGRY YEARS
online, i read about pica, the curiosity
of tasting to understand. my mouth open
to the world, still, when i am
astounded. wanting to be full
of earth, mineral, grace, to pile enough shine
into my belly that i might refract.
i read that youth breeds pica, and stay
childlike in hunger, clattering marbles
down my windpipe for safekeeping.
LOUD-BONED YEARS
magpie skull looks like the cogs of a watch pica pica eats anything — rocks and rivers and time — pica pica is magpie and magpie is death — magpie means stop chattering fill your mouth
with pebbles — magpie, magma, i can’t tell the difference anymore: something
is erupting — all these rocks weren’t here before / i think / this / is earth from space
a swollen throb of papier mache and tempera paint /
dangling off ceiling / with fishing line.
HOLLOW / BURSTING
NOT YOUR FATHER’S BREAD RECIPE
dissolve yeast and sugar in warm water: let stand: i
stand in winter water to my knees / i stand
in irish butter to my waist, gold foil shrapnel pasting
the over\risen edges of my bellybutton
step two:
whisk, stir, blend, combine: dictionary dot com says these are synonyms because they have the same or nearly the same meaning: dictionary dot com would have me believe that boundaries can be broken, that whisking two things will make them one. i say i don’t believe in combination and you have nothing to prove me wrong
step three:
form soft dough, knead until smooth: soft, knead, smooth, use your hands to break things down: break things down for me: you liked me better when i was soft, my skin butter smooth, my self ready to dissolve, only needing you
step four:
this is where it gets
counterintuitive / break it
down for me
again: cover in tea towel, wedding-dress bleached /
let rise in warm place
once doubled
punch down.
once doubled
hurt
step five:
double again,
spread butter into cradle
and tuck in,
thundercloud flesh.
bake until saffron shelled,
not long enough to
lightning at the seams.
step six:
you point to the bursting / surge
over sea-wall
and tell me this is combination
\
i am loaf, i am lightning:
i arc my fingers into heart-curve and
split
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