Category: Uncategorized

By the time you read this poem, the election will be decided,
the ballots counted, balloons dropped, our country still divided.
Commercial fishers lift their unwilling catch from the sea;
like cruel pendants, plastic nets choke cool night’s neck, but we
ignore the gore on deck. What can’t be stopped is conceded.

To StarKist, bycatch, Filet-O- and over-fishing, we are blinded;
the stink of slaughter eludes us. What can we do but abide it?
Perhaps the good candidate won; perhaps he did again. Either way,
when you read this poem, the election will have been decided.

North of Sicily, a sperm whale and illegal drift nets collided;
divers failed, couldn’t cut her free. Further into the deep she glided.
Maybe voter suppression was thwarted; the winner, Democracy—
maybe not. Chances are, we remain cowards unmoved by cruelty.
Whether drowning and defeated, or released into the sea united:
Dear Reader of this poem, the next election is not yet decided.

soften. take pull drag kick and scream yourself to the edge hesitate hold your breath draw up plans and walk away. end things when you’re unhappy self-medicate stop selling ideologies you don’t believe in disavow your leaders and refuse to find new ones. no more newspapers no more Menshevism no more compromises never negotiate your existence take unreasonable stances when necessary. state your intentions. lie. tear open the ground below yellow teeth bared will fall falling fallen land on hard stone break Adam’s other ribs kick him and cry. shave apples cut faces wash yourself put on sacred clothes hole ridden hoodie beer crusted jeans obscure punk band shirt more fag stain than cloth. roll lavender tea rose chamomile lemon balm crushed up hold it to your lips but never light never feel on tongue never breathe never taste sour bitter woody ashysweet pungent grey brown dark and purple. write deep heartfelt letters to dead poets burn them and dance deep in the forest only smoke in special places with people you love. curl your hair feel beautiful hate beauty cut it off: regrow until waist length. the revolution will not be is not being was never televised. suffering is silent. learn to despise your heroes this is an era of collapse begin to unravel. reject accelerationism. hoard stolen flowers rings and tablets submerge stems vases litter mantles. open up sunlight streams in empty room full of fragments broken windows pieced together collect reuse and resell. unbecome. never be useful if you can help it. make notes for a poem. never write a word. the ritual is now complete.

In the City Hall, after the dog show, they started a fight. Strangers in ripped jeans and cactus squeezed into the aisles egging them on. They seemed like old friends dressed like gladiators, locked in wraps of leather, old iron. You are a radical fart said the one with oval glasses. You’re a square turd said the one in brow lines. Waving their walking sticks like sabers they repeated ancient slurs over and over: you blood-sucking pumpkin; you louse infested poppycock; you stinky manure heap; you blathering balloon of burps; you low-life sea snail; you filthy fiddlestick. Soon they were shaking each other by the throat, belching anguished gasps into each other’s eyes flush with tears to make up for the loss for words from half Nelsons. The crowd stood on the edge of time waiting for the turning point; something more extreme. They were already bored. They had seen a million gladiators before. So, the wigs came off, then the glasses. After a short headlock they were crawling the length of the hall’s cracked floor looking for their teeth. Help me find my eyes you scumbags one said, head cocked towards the raucous mob. Help me find my clothes you bastards the other repeated. No one in the pews moved. No one knew if they were real gladiators or ghosts from history dressed up for the evening news

Bright blue pistol
See through plastic
White tubes inside
Bright orange tip, for safety.
There he is, six years
Of ear to ear enthusiasm
With every squeeze
Of the trigger,
Painting the sidewalks
A darker shade of grey
As we walked, him ahead
And me behind,
Searching for arid bad guys
And making little rivers
Of water or lava
As he hopscotches
Over the cracks in the sidewalk.
I scan the doorways
And every car that drove by
Waiting for the Crazy neighbor
Or over zealous homeowner
Protecting their property
From a six year old tresspasser.
I keep my eyes peeled
And hold my breath
When the cop car drives by.

they call my heartbeat

irregular

and i smile

know too well that little boy

on a swing set fluttering in my chest

mouth crammed with sweets during ramadan.

hiding from shadows in the grass

it’s just his head tilting whenever it skips

admiring the clouds

pretending he could be one.

what no one ever teaches children

is that sometimes simply wishing

becomes a dangerous act.

one afternoon you’re dragged to the first row

to pray at the mosque

where there is never really room for you

so you disrobe your fears

become a place of worship

where only birds visit daily

to show disrespect

finally you decide to join them

falling behind

in migration

until no one remembers.

soon enough

you are returning

deep

into the folds of the earth as a fruit tree

cursing legions of ungrateful visitors

who carry your fruit away

years of this

hoarding

as they dismember

the shade

and memory of your body for warmth

part of you escapes as smoke

others shipped and sold

steeped and floating

survive

in tea cups and conversations

now you are the courage

coating the throats of a population

in villages and cities you can’t pronounce

disguised as the water of tears

you are that

invisible/dampness/trapped

in corridors

weaving shrouds at a loom

for every last drop

of shamelessness.

i am there with you

watching the exodus of children

queuing at sunset

to become

the clouds

that will always take

our breath away.

First the pop and pour
CO2 rushing to the surface
then scoreggia a sound
that makes Italian schoolboys laugh.

Some plosives streak upward
disguised as vowels, some
stop on the surface
consonants falling flat.

The VIPs gather, one suggests
bigger flutes, another records
how each bubble contains
a rainbow even while clouds
threaten, a surrogate notes
how a good number cling,
shimmy, rise up, implode.

And really now what choice
do we have but to lift
the tempest to our lips
and wait for polite acceptance
(with reciprocity, of course).

Finally, the empty chalice
Is hurled in a measured arch
of celebration of discontent,
a real Fox News scoreggia.

Somewhere west of Tucson
A paint-peeling trailer park,
Lies snugged next to Interstate 10,
Its structures resting flush
On a flatiron un-green earth.

The tawny surface parched,
Curdled with tires, motorbikes,
And assorted indeterminate items
Encircling the environs of each
Lie rutted roads and driveways.

Towering above the encampment,
Akin to a cathedral spire
A gleamingly pristine, and freshly
Coated, white water tower,
So glossy it glistened and shimmered

Like it was indelibly wet.
And on its shiny face,
Announcing an allegiance
In bold blue and red letters:
Trump

Craving cachet with fancy
Italicized script, like make-believe old,
Heralding a promise of life,
As if the brand was the owner, what
Only the skies can bestow.

You cannot spread your legs for man
or man will shame you,
yet man will determine 7 days of blood to be the butchering
of what could have been man’s image within the womb

they will blame Eve for the blood
then blame you for not willing it away
like legitimate rape that the body would shut down
if it really wanted to

what is the probability of getting fucked by a bomb
bleeding backwards against your opponent?
what is the probability of getting fucked like a trade in
when your body is your only currency

what is the probability that you are unkillable in the same way
that blood doesn’t speak as loud as it does when you attempt
to wash it out

of the period panties you keep
to remind yourself of how long you’ve been a threat

There are times it seems that were I right
And were I whole
I would mourn with tears
The death of every day.

Mourn mourn mourn the death
Fiery disastrous death
Of every dawnbred day – day
That loved and wished and surged
And wondered like a woman
But teeters on its knees, now, wrapped in flames,
Dying like an immolating Buddhist monk.

There are times it seems that were I right
And were I whole
I would mourn with tears
Every microbe’s death.

Mourn mourn mourn the deaths
Ignored unnoticed longgone deaths
Of unlamented lives that like
All lives are likeable in
Their loathsome little ways, encrusted with
Corruption like a mayor
Who’s touching in his pitiableness.

There are times it seems that were I right
And were I whole
I would mourn with tears
The death of each romance.

Mourn mourn mourn the death
Of every little epoch born
Of a couple words and winks:

Every little unwept opera, all
Sagas too small to be sold, all those
Aroused laps and loyalties all
Dying every day like birds
Stomped on and fluttering less and less.

There are times it seems that were I right
And were I whole
I would mourn with tears
The death of our community.

Mourn mourn mourn the death
Flagrant wrenching pleading death
Of all we’ve built and bred –
The cozy wine-dispensing shops
Where once was unaffected and
Affectionate talk of Haydn
and of all-too-human Hume.
Were I right. Were I whole

Last week, there was a choice between
choices
figures of speech.
To clock it in, something in
the wind yesterday said “we”

NO SETTLEMENT, NO DUST

and it meant the favorite fruits
and the friends
running away
and it meant trust in us
and trust in love
and trust that we’re
dutiful, and radical
lovers, something
other, sweeter too.

NO SETTLEMENT, NO DUST

The word we is a plus but, “they” has become a favorite word,
Like a container of fruit but
“They” means cool it
so they means
you were meant to die like “they” means
i dont care anymore like directness is seven
spoons, and seven
knives and seven
forks and seven
plates and seven
chairs at the table
seven seats, but the we is
twenty-eight eyes
twenty-eight hands
twenty-eight legs (a broken femur makes twenty-six “good” ones)
twenty-eight whistles of ears
twenty-eight martyrs (counting every day)
twenty-eight tents
Twenty-eights that grow into the hundreds, of thousands of we

NO SETTLEMENT, NO DUST

with no place to sit at the table,
several spoons for the hungriest of mouths
NO. SETTLEMENT, NO DUST
I didn’t know a figure of speech was also a choice
that means

NO SETTLEMENT, NO DUST

sheep and the feeding rooms
still means you can’t see
In the hospital rooms of workers,
the sweat of life, and sweatshops that never wait to die.
The body is too much gold resonating that sting
of corporate love.

Of an inertia to be used, to be
beaten, to be
cheated, to be
lied to, to be
wrong, to be
taken advantage of, to be
away from old worlds
without the land of hope

to be destitute among the vulture
without protection, alone and unloved
i can’t stomach the guts of the end
which enlists the vulture, alone.

Still that figure of speech, is my final chance to ignore
the evil, then the downtrodden, to ignore on
till i can taste the iron, and all the magma, perseverating on the lips
that lie and breed wildfire
spit and salute
that fund,
that bind,
that grime
that trill of this time on earth
the trick of the light.

What is in a figure of speech, is the space
some
we did not want to hear
“they”
suffer us, at the table,
no?