Topic suggested by Stephanie Logan
has
happened
to my
sha-
dow
how
many
colors
are
in eyes
of
the
foolish
some-
one
has
us
in
this
place
time
where
no one
knows
how
ta
care
ting
in room
of
echoes
who
knows
why
it
keeps
re-
peats
my-
self
could
it
be
open
space
fire truck
runs by
follo-
wing
what
she had
been
sayin
i'm
sha-
ming
my-
self
no
one
comes
lookin
for me
be-
cause
its
hard
ta get
out
of
her
yellin
A photo of frosted feathers
My car's window has captured
Freeze frame memories.
Elsa and Anna it's not your time.
Bitter fair weathered frenzy.
See the windshield wiper blade unmoved?
Brr. Snow art. Abstract or concrete?
Glass is it cracked or crystallized?
Amazed eyes behold the beauty
ice flowers patterned sweet.
Brr. Will Safelite repair, Safelite replace
Silver uniqueness of the winter's
Bitter bone chilling cold
Felt from a beanie covered head,
Rugged huge hooded parka,
with boot wearing feet and toes?
Freeze frame memories
may be a car carrying corpse
seated upright and ice laden
gloved hands possessing a cellphone.
The poetry of nature
or is it nature of poetry
Sea/See within my grasp?
Baked sunlight and sweet seasonal
time did not lapse.
Yes, we did enjoy the
intrigue of the land:
a clear blue-sky canvas,
the Sea of Cortez Ocean
tree leaves, limbs, and sticks
under my booted feet
a discovery of
a white small, shaped snail shell.
A tree trunk boasts
sea tree like moss
towering independently.
A green horseshoe and coiled brown
wooden sea snake or eel of wizardry
not hissing or hidden I recall.
Two five pale yellow pedaled buds
on a branch with ornamental gray dolphins.
The bittersweet biting wind taunts
my face. I want to envelop more
wishing to show and tell my late queen mom
about the floral green frond
from a childhood memory
and the yellow rays open it
a leafy starfish.
Winter leaves crack and crackle
clasped in my vintage and ample hands
becomes a 52-card pickup game
tossed and crispy nonedible salad
in the midst of fall.
Sea/See Poetry of Nature
is swimmingly having a ball.
The Shadow Maker
Mr. X. lived his entire life in a shadow. No matter where he was, what he was doing, or the time of day, a shadow was always cast over him. Mr. X. was accustomed to this shadow. As a child, he tried numerous times to escape the shadow, but he never succeeded. No trick or quick movement on his part would suffice. The shadow prevailed.
Then one day, when he was well into middle-age, the all-covering shadow suddenly disappeared. Mr. X. was instead shrouded by bright light. Being used to the shadows, this light distressed him, both physically and emotionally. Just as he had once had an urge to escape the shadow, now he wished to escape the light. But this too was impossible. No matter where he was, Mr. X. was brightly lit. He felt exposed, vulnerable and uncomfortable in his new role. His distress grew greater than what he had ever known.
But he learned to take comfort in his own shadow. He had never cast one before, and now he had a constant companion, one that was always loyal and acting only his command. After some time, Mr. X. realized that he would no longer be someone obscured or defined by a shadow, but that now he was the main actor, the one of influence, not the shadowed, but the shadow-maker.
BITTER
I am never bitter
But some people think they are
Better than me.
I disagree.
I speak my mind.
I am not one to be confronted
But camouflaged
Like a deer
In wait
For its mate.
Yet it's never too late
To take the bait
And smell your fate
Until it's a crate
Or a date.
SWEET
I can smell the sweet
Smell of success
Like a dress
Without a mess,
Or a fuss.
A sweet person
Is a lesson
To be learned
When in turn
It is earned.
At best
We are in a test.
We must let it rest
And not distress
To beat the nest.
Against my breast
And not be distressed
As a guest
In a Holiday Inn.
We win.
Gray Man Blues
I’m a ghost inside a meat suit
dirty blonde and eyes of ice
no desire for a square job
I’m a hustler tossin’ dice
the birthplace of this bastard
was up above the looney tunes
momma worked a double
on the day that I was brewed
she burned both ends of the candle
keeping up with baby booms
eleven o’ one p.m., Rockford, Illi-Noose
I’m a spirit in a flesh pod
who never learned how to choose
now this bittersweet gray man
sings the blues
let me tell ya about a girl
I’d be remiss to slush her
she was made of fire and flax
emeralds and disorders
her heart pumped straight-up caramel
her loins dripped honey bee puke
she nailed my heart to another man
and took the light out of my truth
now I’m walking to the gas hut
crimson shirt drips on my shoes
I’ll throw it in the dumpster
and get a free twelve pack of booze
drunken with my nipples bare
dreaming up new forms of doom
Dianne’s boy, sweetly bitter
with the blues.
now I’m forty, lost in Houston
on the withdrawal walk down Fannin
everyone here loves that cherry wine
I’m try’na find that bag of phantom
can’t remember how I got here
does the bus run when it snows?
gotta hightail it to Aldine
find a plug, powder my nose
cut me slack, babe, show me favor
let me drink deep of your flavor
with a crushed can and a bunch of change
waiting by the corner store
When I looked up to the starlight
something said, “Rob—that’ll do!”
my life is like an abandoned car
that’s still fat with unburnt fuel
what you think now, Mr. Bruni?
of these demons that consume me?
of the decades in the poison place
and the nightshade in my well
you said my epic would outlive me
but tonight I’m not so sure
every bet I make is even
they will never call me pure
my sweet soul still craves the spotlight
I guess it hasn’t heard the news
another cliché gray man
sings the blues.
bittersweet *pomo haiku
She savored the taste
Bitter and sweet together
Like hurt and anger
*pomo stands for post-modern
sea level
How do I swim?
Across the sea
Of possibilities
Through ocean blue
Where each breath
Breathes tranquility
Past the surfers
Waiting for waves
I nosedive under
Beginning foam
Flying in liquid to
Bathtub water calm
Sprinkles of sunshine
Diamond sparkling on
Droplets of sweet skin
Dolphins racing me
I beg them
Take me with you
Bitter sadness when
I can’t see them
Anymore. I promise
Myself one day
My ashes will blend
With the sea
I will finally get to be
The mermaid
I always wanted to be
Someday
adult dress up
So, what will you be?
Once upon a time
When the trauma train
Stops running through
Your veins?
So, what will you be?
You packed your
Bitterness in a
Beat up suitcase.
Maybe?
Can’t walk away
As it goes
Round and round
On the carousel
Once upon a time?
Mary Poppins
Whisked you away
To chalk paintings
Dripping wet pavements.
Once upon a times?
So, what will you be?
The absence of you
Is slowly being filled
Velvet petals, sweet
Smelling Lavender fields
Wisp of a cloud’s smile
How could I possibly
Be filling up the hole?
Words you weave
Reach me. Can I be whole?
What will you be?
What will you be?
What will you be?
It’s simple~
Love
arc
I watched a bitter orange moon
rise like fire over the mountain
to glow through smoky gray clouds
while the stars dance
between gaps in the clouds
as all the emptiness of space
compresses to mere firefly flights
between me
and you
and all the memories that fill up
between now
and then
when we watched meadows
be filled with moonlight
while dreaming different futures
we thought were the same
like the Venn diagram
of the shows we both liked
almost empty
like a universe
where insignificant dots
suck up all the meaning
like black holes
while what remains
is filled up by meaningless equations
that are true
like cosmic uncertainty
in the unopened box
awaiting its Pandora
to reveal unspoken of burdens
that weigh down
the tiny unnoticed lives
that look up
to see moons and stars
that no one else
notices
It all seemed so unspectacular on first glance.
What is a poet to do with a myriad of repressed fantasies?
As usual, rational thought went up in a blaze of incongruity.
Standing in a small dark space, I worked on my cheetah skills.
It dawned on me that there is no good reason for me to show
my possibly winning hand or any particular auditory slipups.
I got the feeling that something really powerful was messing
with my codes, with my sense of worth, with my soul.
This situation can bring on the most annoying bitterness,
can bring on a loss of balance, a loss of true governance.
The hallway was jam-packed with froufrou expressions
to twist in a Hammurabi moment into a ponderous fringe continent.
I strapped on a metal detector that has proven to find
all the sensory exotica that I can handle.
Maybe it comes down to the motion in the ocean,
I find the sparks are flying off the burning skillet of family phenomenology.
Coming around the corner on the dark side of my eyelids,
I frame a ritual ceremony in order to not surrender
to the elephant in the room that is the catastrophe of sweetness.
Poetry, Chapter II
Poetry is not beautiful
Dutiful, bountiful or merciful
Bitter or sweet
Or anywhere near as loud
As a coconut cloud
It is as large as the Pacific
And as deep as the specific
Poetry is a fading turquoise wall
Livid bathroom stall
Neutral hallway pall
Torpedoed suburban mall
Poetry tries
Yet lies
Gives to live
Dies to cry
Poetry bombards
Anchors lard
Cellophane stretching
Like NBA retching
Poetry murders
Silliness and slang
Sex and bling
T-Rex and a wedding ring
Poetry is an Iris
Nicknamed Cyrus
Growing like an unborn slut
Tearing in my eye
Like my mother's melting sigh
Missing Mercury
When the sun appears on Mercury
Rappers go inside
Idealists hide
Politicians burn
Pastors for a tranquil day yearn
Shadows stern
Rust turns
Mercury lost at a steep cost
Bitter moss
Planet number one
Does not get it done
Until moon dips its gun
Mercury chased
Gamma rays raped
Who tortures the weak
On this asteroid oblique
Tell me the truth
Why does Mercury weep
Never sleep
On its bed made of sheep?
Mercury rejected
Sun requested
Bile digested
Robert Frost bested
Mercury vaped Venus away
Earth another day
Equator to stay
Hot birds in May
Open the play
Picasso in clay
Mercury does not pray
Replay ballet
Sugar, Sugar
Sweet as a brand-new train seat
Not losing your head when sky is red
Bullet made of lead
Bloody day
Bitter gray
South of May
My soul is never here to stay
Fashioning clay
Made of a subtle stay
During this cursed malaise
Why won't my younger sister's bones break
For the lines she crossed
Lives she lost
Love she tossed
Sculpted raptor by the sea
Solving puzzles three by three
Take me through the Autumn breeze
Where only children learn to breathe
The red-throated hummingbird
perches on a branch near the patio
feeder, providing daily company
as I peruse my morning paper.
As other hummers fly close,
they are quickly chased
away in a blur of flight
by the defending sentinel.
Hour after hour, day after day,
he guards his territory, bolting
after any intruder who might
threaten his personal supply.
Until—the day she flies by—
the only one to make his manly
heart beat faster. Only his lady love
is allowed to hover, drink her fill.
Is her chirp a sweeter tone?
Her feathers a deeper sheen?
Her wing span more alluring?
Her beak tilt a touch more dainty?
Pushing aside my newspaper filled
with ongoing articles of the worldwide
pandemic, I consider the wiles
that won his heart.
Pondering such fragile ideas,
my thoughts take
wing, and
fly away.
I have a sexy toe,
a very sexy toe.
You will not believe
how very sexy
is my toe.
It wasn’t always so
that I’ve had a sexy toe.
It had a little hump
and I tried to shave that bump
until red began to show.
Infection grew below
and around my saddened toe.
I took antibiotic,
but sepsis waged chaotic—
with pain my poor toe glowed.
To hospital to and fro
I took my weepy toe.
Doctor said “You must heal faster.
A skin graft I can master!
With a needle I will sew.”
I asked, “You will fix my toe,
in its sorry state of woe
with the skin from a cadaver?”
He said, “No, I would rather
not use cadaver for your toe.”
“I need soft skin for your toe.
Skin sweet as a Beauty rose.
I’ll use a baby’s foreskin,
yes, I said a little foreskin!
which on your toe will grow.”
I have a foreskin on my toe,
a fucking foreskin on my toe!
If you’ve never seen one,
maybe you can get one.
It’s a very sexy toe.
And it’s the big one . . .
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drowned
in salt
water
the meat is sweet
bitter shadow
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sós
vízbe
fulladt
húsa édes
árnyéka keserű
The Distance
They had different opinions
And quarreled over a matter
End up turning their backs
Against each other
And did not talk for days
It was about small things
But they insisted on their stances
To safeguard their own dignities
The cold war persisted
Gradually her heart softened
As she thought about his good
She gave him a warm smile
That was all needed
To solve their impasse
Sometimes the distance
Between bitter and sweet
Is just a smile away
Chocolate Cake
A house late at night that lays
somewhere between today and
tomorrow holds a certain
quiet and aloneness that
attracts me
I look for comfort in the
kitchen to the only thing
still awake, the refrigerator
It doesn't not disappoint, it
has in store for me a forgotten
piece of chocolate cake
I sit at the kitchen table
with the cake, accompanied by
a tall glass of milk
the stars are shining bright through
the kitchen window
I break off a piece, bring it to
my mouth
The pastry sinks within my taste buds,
moist and sweet
The moment, simple and delicious
satisfies me
I fork the cake in and tell myself
I want to feel this way again and again
It’s crisp October and the high ocean air
Has a sweet scent of sapphire tinge.
Lights have just mislaid their color
outlying the five o’clock skyline
Car headlights come one, owls test the field
late sun striking tops of trees
Illuminating the poplar leaves
Sky transformed swiftly from warm to cold
A chill breeze urged past me
I heard wind chimes play a vigorous tune
As the crisp October night folded in.
The Arrival of Spring
A long winter has ended
The arrival of Spring pleases me
It’s sweet light is in full flourish
It fills my garden
Robins and sparrows and a pair of blue jays
fluttered through the trees with renewal
I pick up a garden hose and scatter a stream
of cold water on the begonias, calla lilies,
Bird of paradise and on the hollyhocks
After that on the ivy bed, the steps of the
front porch and the windows too
Everything in sight was bathed in a damp,
fresh glow.
I looked at the dripping trees, flooded front
porch, the sparkling flowers, the pools of water
on the lawn and the saturated driveway
I felt pleasingly rejuvenated and reborn
MY FAVORITE TREAT (HAIKU)
Chocolate is sweet.
At times it can be bitter.
Still, it tastes so good.
FEELINGS LOST FOREVER (HAIKU)
Innocent and sweet.
Followed by cynicism.
So hard to go back.
JEWELED MELODY (HAIKU)
Neil Diamond Song
Sweet Caroline deeply rocks
Memory tugs heart
DISPLAY OF SADNESS (HAIKU)
Life can be bitter
We live in a gallery
Heavy with ruin
Harlem Summer
Summer program teach writing reading
seniors 70’s 80’s born in south
worked cotton fields migrate north
army of maids janitors raise families
work hard eager to write spell their names
eyes wide open let themselves out me in
they call me baby honey sugar sweetie
serious determined grateful
smile laugh clap their hands
spell out loud birth smiles laughter
love to tell jokes
single men rare women plentiful
flirt bake homemade cakes pies cookies
daily fashion show
graduation day family members present
every one wear Sunday best
whirlwind of colorful dresses
handsome men wear suits
family friends celebrate
sing tell childhood stories
bow heads say prayer
moment of silence those departed
ask who knows how to read write
response We do We do
memories present hold hands
Lift Every Voice and Sing
tears slide down our cheeks
happy cheers bear hugs cheers happy hugs
ask who knows how to read write
chorus respond We do! We do!
Wordless Warrior
Fighting was her calling card
one she proudly claimed
tough dare on two feet
foul mouth hand gestures
sweet sixteen smile detoured
eyes hunt for prey
flash “don’t mess with me”
Poster Boy
Twelve-year-old boy soldier was asked
what he missed the most after he was rescued
He said When I had a gun I never had to worry about food
Sweet faced boy with a green bandanna
Hair in his face shield eyes
His fingers clutch ice cream cone
Pistachio. A strawberry on top
AK 47 leans into him
He leans into camera
The ice cream melting
I believe one good poem
can rescue a book of poetry
in this world where luminous poems are few
and most are great efforts.
We listen with two ears.
One low to the ground,
hearing rumbles of buried hearts;
the other is quite deaf,
trained to ignore minor indiscretions.
Our world deals us,
without concern or lecture, poetry
in season or out of season,
ripe or decaying or developing.
We fly across fields.
While over the next hill,
bright mists cover
today's surprise, reason to smile.
A solitary poem
making its way through brambles of the vale,
sweet journey of the fastidious bee.
Rest, weary traveler
Lay your burdens, down
You were once a small child
Innocence without plans
Heart beats unburdened
World troubles unchecked
Rest, weary traveler
Let your soul settle
Take your needed rest
Bathe in the peace of silence
Emotions have their limits
Quit striving to know
Sweet lullaby rest
You run and ran and then
Relax, relaxation
Harbor of temporary stay
Rest, weary traveler
Tomorrow, you will sail away
Remember also your Creator in the
days of your youth, before the evil days come and the years draw near of which
you will say, "I have no pleasure in them."
— Ecclesiastes 12:1 (ESV)
In clarity, remember the Creator's grace,
the stars and moon, before they fade.
Before the strong men bend and break,
and shadows claim the paths we made.
The golden bowl, it gleams then fades,
a fragile thing, like all we hold.
I grasp its weight with trembling hands,
confessing now, I long for God.
After the gold bowl crumbles again,
I seek a quiet place, an embrace.
With repentance, I find my way,
and in this truth, sweet home.
Teshuvah, literally meaning “return," is a central theme of the High Holidays in Judaism, focusing on repentance and returning to God, moral purity, or community, through introspection, confession, and genuine transformation. Teshuvah is both a personal process and a cosmic force, restoring balance.
mt-Eve
COM LIT 250 SEMINAR IN CRITICAL BIBLE STUDIES:
Loki: Around 200,000 years ago, later part of the Pleistocene Period,
the first humans emerged in the region around Lake Victoria. The
lake's area is divided among three countries: Kenya, Uganda, and
Tanzania. Lake Victoria is Africa's largest lake by area, the world's
largest tropical lake, and the world's second largest freshwater lake
by surface area after Lake Superior in North America. The waters
from Lake Victoria flow into the Mediterranean Sea through the Nile
River. Mitochondrial Eve, also known as mt-Eve was born and lived in
this region of Africa.
Amiri: (Plays his guitar while singing. Loki draws an African mask with
marker on classroom whiteboard)
Rivers I have seen and rivers I have known
Ancient as the world and older than the blood
I’ve known rivers:
All through Africa and North America
South America and Australia
I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers
in the North and South
I’ve known rivers
in the East and West
I’ve known rivers all over this world
I’ve sailed some and seen the rest
I’ve known rivers
I’ve known rivers
Ancient, dusky rivers.
And my soul has grown deep
Like the rivers
Like the rivers
Like the rivers of my soul (1)
Wiki Lin: In human genetics, the Mitochondrial Eve, sometimes
shortened to mt-Eve is the matrilineal most recent common ancestor
of all living humans. In other words, she is defined as the most recent
woman from whom all living humans descend in an unbroken line
purely through their mothers and through the mothers of those
mothers, back until all lines converge on one woman. (Loki finishes
drawing and lays marker on tray.)
Loki: So honored to have the mother of all humans living today,
Mitochondrial Eve. May I call you mt-Eve for short.
mt-Eve: No problem, Honey.
Maggie: Omigod! Black like Amiri and me. LOVE YOU, MAMA EVE!
mt-Eve: Love you back, baby!
Loki: In Genesis 3:20 Adam calls your name Eve because you are the
mother of all living which according to the World Clock is over 8
billion people who live on our planet today and counting.
mt-Eve: Mercy! Mercy! In my times we could wonder days without
end in our forager-hunter bands without seeing anyone who looked
like us.
Okie: Wow! That’s a lot of birthdays to remember.
mt-Eve: No problem, honey. I’m in everybody born; everybody born
is in me.
Blake: If you are mt-Eve, then where is mt-Adam?
mt-Eve: You must be thinking of the "Y-chromosomal member of
Homo sapiens
from whom all living humans are descended
Patri lineally. As to where this “Adam” is, your guess is as good as
mine. You know how men are. (Laughs)
Wiki Lin: Y-chromosomal Adam’ is thought to have walked the Earth
between 120,000 and 156,000 years ago. But the researchers say it is
‘extremely unlikely’ they were exact contemporaries.
Cal: Have you encountered any Mitochondrial talking snakes who
walk instead of crawling by any chance?
mt-Eve: Well, around campfires, my grandmother would tell a lot of
stories about animals who spoke. The speaking and walking serpent
in your Bible sounds like a trickster we’d often hear about in one of
her stories.
Irene: Your grandmother? You weren’t the first woman on earth like in
Genesis?”
mt-Eve: No, Honey, just the only one you can trace descent to
everybody living today.
Cal: Like you said, Mama Eve, Genesis is a story, not history. All
people have not been damned to burn in hell forever because Adam
and Eve ate some goddamned apple. Ergo there’s no need to grovel
before some preacher to get right with some old, bearded sky-god.
Barry: Well then how do you account for all this wicked shit in the
world that keeps happening like crime and war? My Presbyterian
pastor says Adam and Eve fell into history.
mt-Eve: What is crime and war?
Loki: Some bad habits many of your descendants picked up along
the way. Well, Mama Eve, it’s been a real pleasure visiting the African
mother of us all.
mt-Eve: The pleasure is all mine, Sweet cakes.
Maggie: Sweet cakes? Where’d she pick that up?
Blake: From Kaylin Haught’s poem, “God Says Yes to Me”
(1) Gary Bartz’s Jazz rendition of Langston Hughes poem, “I’ve known Rivers”
Bittersweet
Bittersweet
I frequent fruit stands
for chopped mangoes
sprinkled with tajin powder
If they're crisp and sour
instead of soft and syrupy
I squint my eyes
wrinkle my nose
muttering "Bittersweet!"
The sandy wind
blows against my face
stings my eyes
blurs my view with tears
while ravens cry
"Bittersweet!"
The taste on my tongue
reminds me
of adolescence
my lips curled
into a single word
"Bittersweet"
Bury Me Deep
Bury me deep in the tall meadow grass
and bury me deep in your arms.
Lie with me here in the sun ripening flowers
where the blue of the sky hides the clouds.
Bury me deep in your cool white sheets
and kiss my eyes and my mouth.
And as the warmth of your body flows in to mine
I’ll bury you deep in my arms.
Oh, bury me deep beneath darkening skies
and hold me close to your heart.
And buried deep with our love complete
we’ll sleep covered over in stars.
But the future lies with us heavy and dark.
It has bitter sweet memories of now.
With the tastes of the past buried deep in our love
the tastes of the future are sharp.
I can see both the stars and the blackness of night,
the blindness and brightness of love.
The past and the future cast shadows of time
so bury me deep in your love.
And bury me deep in the tall meadow grass
and I’ll bury you deep in my arms.
And lie with me here in the sun ripened flowers
where the blue of the sky meets the clouds.
First published in Quail Bell, February 2017
The Last Word
It’s almost done.
We’re close to the end
of the sweet times
and into
the too wet
too dry
too bright
too hot
bitter
empty end
If I could turn back time
I’d see flocks of birds
flying into the sunset
migrating
as they did for millennia.
I’d see the too loud gulls
swooping and diving
in raucous frenzy
to fill the sea and the sky.
Now there’s just one.
I’ve nothing more
to say.
Picnic
Gather round!
Who dares first will win the prize,
fly away with the sweetest bite,
the most crumbly crumb,
most fleshy fruit.
Gather round!
Wait till they look the other way.
There’s safety in numbers
and they’ll be feeling sleepy
from drinking the sweet wine,
and bitter beer from the bottles.
Gather round!
There’s enough to share.
No need to wait for them to go.
They’ll only leave the tiny morsels
and we’ll have to scavenge for them
in the grass.
All together now!
Here we go!
AMBROSE BIERCE WRITES "MEXICO CITY BLUES"
1.
They call me bitter--
geez, who could blame me?
How much money did that
son-of-a-bitch Sammy Clemens
make?
And he lost it all, too--
what a fucking idiot.
At least they'll never make
one of MY books into
a movie starring
Bing Crosby.
2.
That Kerouac fellow is
on to something--
just write a bunch of gibberish
on a scrap of paper
and when the paper's full
call it a poem.
It doesn't even have to
make sense.
Man, all those years I wasted
writing long lines with big words
and rhymes and
plus I had to fill entire
newspaper columns.
Well, I won't be one of those geezers
who can't take a pointer
from the young'uns!
3.
I think the peyote
is helping with my asthma.
Gotta swill a lot of
tequila to keep that shit down,
tho.
4.
Pancho Villa came by today--
he wants me to ghost
his autobiography.
Exciting!
This is why I came here,
to bring the story of
the glorious Mexican Revolution
to my readers back home.
Fuck Huntington and
the rest of those
capitalist pigs.
Will start as soon as
we iron out the
screen rights details.
Pancho also said
that tequila undermines
the efficacy of peyote
in alleviating COPD,
and suggested instead
a concoction of goat's milk
and saltpeter.
Luckily, he had a dozen jars
of this in his saddlebags,
which he traded me for
my case of tequila.
5.
A miserable week.
The rancid goat's milk gave me
a debilitating case of
explosive diarrhea, while simultaneously
the saltpeter triggered a series
of huge, painful erections
that only served to remind me
of my disastrous marriage.
Also, since Villa left the other day,
I have been unable to
find my watch.
I've lost 10 pounds and
my remaining faith in mankind.
6.
I'm off to the Land
of the Tarahumara,
where I'm told there are
wild shamans who conduct
elaborate ceremonies with
psychotropic herbs that
reveal the key to the cosmos
or some such hippie shit.
Leaving first thing in the morning,
just me and a pack mule.
What the hell, I'm 72
and if I croak in the desert
it's all the same to me.
May the condors lick
the putrid flesh from my bones
and find it sweet.
bittersweet symphony
raindrops scatter
along with a skirl of notes
from a mockingbird perched
on a barren tree branch
this abrasive duet
binds itself to the edge
of my slumber until
the shrill ping of the alarm
shatters the moment
& I arise from my bed
suspended in regret
with an earful
of staccato shards
The Anchor
My cat hooks his paw
into my hip while he sleeps,
a reminder I’m necessary
for food and other matters.
This reminds me of when
we once shared a bed;
a bad idea from the start.
You, always wrecked with pain
and wrapped in nightmares,
would loop an arm around my waist
and groan with relief,
as I became an anchor
to keep you from drifting away
to a place of which you feared
but never spoke
What I never told you
was what you cost me;
the hours, the dreams,
and sleep I lost
as you relaxed into safety,
and spread out in the bed.
Over time, I was pushed
little by little, to the edge.
I tried to talk about it
but was told to suck it up
by single bitter friends
who’d trade their lives
for one night
of entangled limbs,
and a litany of snores.
I began to resent
your obstruction
of my comfort and rest,
until one evening,
when I was stricken
with a migraine,
and elected to sleep alone.
This was the moment
that through my own pain,
I breathed a sigh of relief
as I reclaimed my space
and sanity.
Bitter Suites to Succubi
What has happened to my sha- dow how many colors are in eyes of the foolish some- one has us in this place time where no one knows how...
