Posts for June 12, 2018 (page 2)

the ending to a long ass poem that got away from me but was able to recover…

…

9. 

the poet on trial is acquitted (ode to a clean slate)

i told you fuckers i didn’t do it. now
w-what, again, even was the charges?!?

• 2 counts possession of unlicensed freeverse w/ intent to internet  
• 2 counts of pen-handling 
• 1 count soliciting unsafe text within 500 feet of a small press.
• 1 count possession of bookbinding stapler and 2 reams of newsprint with intent to chapbook
• gobs and gobs counts of journaling while non-academic outside a pre-assigned genre.
• 12 counts of doodling in book margins.

well… yeah. yeah. i did all that. 
goddamn, yall almost got me; whew, that shit was close.
yall must suck at this… but fareal tho… fareal, fareal… 

it’s no mean feat, no soft miracle, 
being an un-credentialed poet with no professional youtube
and hardly 300 followers in 5 years of instagram; no graduating 
mfa class to exchange photobombs with, no artsy literary collective
to disband with once fame is gained and jealousy dampens…

i’ve worn, in sullen dreams, the mammoth’s head and
the centaur’s bottom hunting ovids of Africa in autumn… 
avoiding Narcissus and Invidia and the Vestal Virgins 
where the trend is to CGI Circe in broken rhyme,
to place her in a Cubs cap (after nightclub) at the Waffle House,
the Whore House, in the White House’s nuclear bunker… 
but i’m never one to linger on the likes of Hera or the love life
of Amphitrite nor on Antheia’s green thumb… i’m rooted
in an invisible missive, a magnetic juju / behind 
this palisade of constellations, this Inzalo Y’Langa, i am most
at home reclaiming my divinity in this birthplace of the sun. 

in this birthplace of the sun, i am the gardener of ghosts.

Tap, tap, tap
Oozing eagerness
Escapes from my toes
Anticipation pulses
Through my veins
A greyhound pacing at the gate,
I wait to spring into your arms,
Kiss your lips,
Wrap myself into you

Just a little while longer….

i am boring.
i am bored.
i am grey.
i am hard.
i am cold.
i am steel.
until
i am used
the right way.
hammer away.
i am not
the ball
but i am
the chain.

How long is too long 
to keep a graduation gown hanging
on the back of one’s door?
Its almost like leaving out a Christmas tree,
just as exorbitantly decorated,
well into March, April, May.

The young maiden,
who swore she would climb trees until she was 80,
and the mother of abundant breast milk and clinging babies
are gone,
and in the mirror
there is someone new.
Perhaps it was gradual,
swearing to drink more water,
to go on a carb free diet,
to walk 30 minutes a day,
to eat less sugar,
to go to bed earlier,
Perhaps stress and
years of sorrow and heartbreak,
or years of loss and gaping wounds,
of marriage and divorce,
of babies taking first steps
and of children wanting to die,
of saying yes and
of being forced,
of being accepted and of being ostracized,
of being embraced and of being misunderstood,
of diabetes and hypertension,
Hair loss and tooth loss,
unanswered quests and truths revealed,
these women
once with pouty lips and trustful eyes
now gaze
at the transformation of time,
of years gone by,
of grey strands of hair
and healing gums,
wondering with horror,
wondering if the bottom has just dropped out
from under them,
from under her,
wondering if poetry will sound the same,
and if she is still a wild woman,
or just a toothless crone?

We walked for ages in an urban Mojave 
Hoping for the grace of shade big enough to stand in.
Both of our palms had sweat that provided no aid
as 94 degree radiation disabled any in an instant.
Even the wind seemed to have heat stroke, 
blowing barely enough to move a hair on my lover’s head

So we finally struck refuge in a nation of Golden Arches 
with promise of cold fans and Sprite
Preserved by frozen clumps of frozen ambrosia 
Bobbing between the bubbles.

In the embrace of air conditioning,
We laughed at the welts we have from the sun
Noting the trenches between wheat coloured lands
and the lands that look more like burnt toast over my legs.

When I looked at him, I saw happiness make its mark on the corner of his eyes
And I realised
That the whole time we traveled from the sun’s stern, steady, searing gaze
Into the comfort of fans, French fries, and unlimited refills
Our hands stayed together as if Christmas came early.

It took me a week only to figure out
I am not made for this city
or any other like it, probably
the asphalt doesn’t knead into my feet like South dirt
ain’t no place for a blanket sitter.

Babies here live in grey
grey stairs always climbin’ up to grey windows
grey trains stop start no warning or grace
grey people yell cover your ears
ain’t no color to raise a baby in, grey. 

My legs always scraped
people stand too close here rub against you
rub bags rub bicycles 
rub buttons in a bad place
ain’t no need to give up your seat sir.

Never felt dirty hands like this
wash them ten times a day till they crack
hands dirty on subway seats
hands dirty on drunk man’s smell 
ain’t no Kentucky outside, cleaner than in. 

I am not made for this city
ain’t no place for me.

He chooses David Bowie, Changes; says This is our
song, Babe.  He leans close, singing soft and breathy
in her ear.  She shrugs him away with a laugh,
thinks about the makeshift platform bed back at
his artists’ commune.  One of the guys who lives here
was Janis Joplin’s lover, he’d told her.
Reckless and thrilling, she knows, just like
this impetuous trip.  Just like

the time she popped herself, naked
from the waist up, out of her boyfriend’s sunroof
one clear, moon-glossed night and took a ride
around the back roads of her little home town,
letting the wind taste her skin.

Under the table, she lays her hand on his
inner thigh and slowly glides her way up, ending
with a light brush across his lap.  His sharp inhale,
his glance, are lightning strikes.  This white-hot
charging of her senses must be love.  He’s already
said it is.  He leads her through the crowded bar
to the door.  She strokes his back with her body, wants

nothing to do with the pain pouring out of the jukebox:
Billie Holiday, Good Morning, Heartache.

Dear Friends,

you have chosen
to continue 
loving me
even though
I disappear 
from you 
for months 
at a time

even though
I don’t always
answer your calls 

just know 
that when 
I go quiet 
it isn’t because
I don’t care 
about you

it is because
I am trying 
to care for 
myself