To the god of the Black Flame
Sitting on their thrones,
the pantheon forged in flame.
Will & thought ensued;
my prototype heart iron-made.
Bronze form but pumping red blood.
Sitting on their thrones,
the pantheon forged in flame.
Will & thought ensued;
my prototype heart iron-made.
Bronze form but pumping red blood.
The way it seemed it might be
Is not the way it is.
No poems rhyme or tap dance
Without a thought from me.
They hide behind my book stack
Or in my winter coat
Too shy, in spite of coaxing,
To have their quiet say.
The truth is dull, tasteless, future-blank,
about as overrated as political capital,
about as animated as Still Life.
Screw you, Google: your vats of knowledge
can’t autocomplete my soul so fuck fact!
Allow me my little lies; they propel me,
they don’t pinch off argument, they build
foundation with fault but whatever:
when The Big One hits, the truth won’t save.
I refuse to care that the Styx might swallow me.
Heaven awaits on the other side so guzzle me
damnit, cast my bones into black water
& in the meantime I can pine like an evergreen,
my branches reaching for every drop of sun.
It matters exactly nothing that stars explode,
that the very rays I cherish will kill me,
I’ll be long dead anyway.
Maybe a lover will be an enemy. A bottle
will be a hangover, an angel a demon,
a lake a dusty bowl of cacti, a cat all claws.
What of it? I will still swim white & naked
in the moonlight, pray to silent heavens,
drink until I pound time flat as soda,
pet cats with impunity (bellies and all).
I will take my lover in my arms
like she, too, wants to claw my eyes out.
Let’s have a bar brawl over who won MVP
last Stanley Cup, what arbitrary athlete
put a stupid thing inside of another stupid thing.
let’s wail & cry with wolfish passion about numbers,
about how to pronounce Appalachia,
about people we hurt around pool tables
& under toll bridges, & on battlefields. We’re all idiots
anyway so let’s at least try to be happy idiots.
See—we’re the kind of idiots who care
about truth without actually knowing it.
We don’t keep it in our pocket protectors,
we bounce it in a circle like a hacky sack,
knead it with our toes & with our tongues.
There’s no need to decipher our drivel—
the drivel is the good stuff, the language
of logic is our cautious enemy. He lurks
like a smartass at the back of class,
shoots blow-darts at our frivolity.
Ignore him. Nobody likes that kid,
the teacher won’t even eat his apple.
Listen, I’m not saying fuck truth
but maybe if he just took a seat for a while
nobody would mind very much. Maybe
we’d take our clothes off & run naked
through corn fields, or maybe we’d eat
bugs out of pitcher plants, or maybe,
just maybe, we’d remember happiness.
as it appears inside
the back of your skull
lines of sight that project
through your eyes
tattoo continents and oceans
with inky residue of blasted
dreams so you will not
be able to forget
the way home
Here. She pointed.
Touched my lips, her collarbone,
again my lips.
The clavicle,
from Latin: clavicula,
“little key.”
The key to?
She touched her sternum,
said, make no bones.
Each
day
in June
when verses
flow from poets’ pens,
and come to grace the Accents’ page,
we celebrate community
with gratitude to
LexPoMo.
Each day
this
June.
— Mary L Allen
you imagine having a casual conversation
maybe he is watching
some show
you are looking
at clearance items online
he laughs at jokes
you always manage
to just miss
he quickly glances
at the computer screen
when you point out
something you like
you imagine a whole conversation
without
i miss you
i wish you were here
i wish i could touch you
i want you
oh, what i would do to you if you were just here …
and you think
you will keep this distance
just a bit longer
You can’t play the trombone while you’re holding a baby,
the choir director says, as he reaches for the child with his magic hands,
hands that lead us through the songs
in four-part harmony but with one voice.
We sing until the tunes put forth roots–
more trumpet-like here, more vocal character there.
We think tall vowels, line up the sounds, shape the stopping points
until the music becomes the living liturgy
articulating the pain and suffering of Christ. Singing liberates us.
After the last hymn, we float out of the cathedral doors.
“How like a window she has become…
she that was a princess.” (Lamentations 1:1)
Now I only see through her
to what is behind,
after reading lines of other hearts aligned
and beating in bed beside her,
undulating like tides inside her,
she’s no longer a royal vision,
and almost faceless,
save for two pools of blue ice
that reflect nothing
but my inevitable inadequacy.
