Their pain is born from fissures
in a ruptured union, leaking black bile,
becoming tidepools of resentment
under moonless night of regret.
Intensity of emotion
has brought her into this world
blind and formless.
After the begging had ceased,
after the demands rose,
floating away as all hot-air does,
after the tears dried and crusted
in corners, after goodbyes
scattered wounded elements
the way all stars fall,
a series of electro-chemical sparks
ignite her coalescence into
nebulous idea,
as hurt, shame, and love commiserate
with introspection, perspective,
and empathy; her formlessness
is shaped into a proto-philosophy,
the light splitting her darkness
is an empty notebook, opening.
Her energy not lost, but transferred
as all pain is, she reclaims herself
after a lost cause, opening, pouring
her dark tidepools onto pages, her bile
shaped into words they wanted to say,
but were too prideful, too shameful,
too fearful to voice to one another
when it may have brought them closer
to joy; their Shakespearian tragic timing
cooling, on paper, appropriately,
into a poem which begins as:
“She is born as all are; from their pain.”
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 28 prompt: write a meta-poem, or a poem about poetry.
She was beautiful,
long before learning
a self-butcher’s trade.
Long before swinging
lifelessly
from a tree in a park
– her final act completed publicly
after countless private attempts – her end
was pre-assisted
by the animal kingdom.
Nature was a
giant killer hornet colony
nesting in her head.
Nurture was meat
for a Komodo dragon
ignored by farmhands.
She was banished from
purgatory paradise
by serpent-creator.
The meat became her own
expert butcher, carving
fortune from flesh.
A successful vendor,
despite the killer hornets
devouring their share.
But she dared to be
discerning in company of
lurking painted wolves.
Scavengers and hunters
combined to consume her
to the marrow, leaving only
her final act of defiance,
her final words to
the animal kingdom,
a day before her final act;
“Fuck y’all”.
There is no solace
in burying the bruises,
as only the living bruise.
She ended her pain
alone in a park
by focusing its sum
upon her kissable neck,
compressing the noose;
a temporary evisceration
for a lasting peace
that eluded her infested skull in life.
Perhaps not the beautiful ending
a beautiful butcher like her deserves,
but an ending all the same.
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 21 prompt: write a poem that “incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.”
I interpret that as “go nuts with abstractions and strange metaphors”, and so I did my best with this tragic tale.
That iconic church
catching fire
is not upsetting.
Firebombing
less-iconic black churches
is not upsetting.
Random hate crimes
against minorities
is not upsetting.
A murder of another
based on who they choose to love
is not upsetting.
Having a government leader
with no empathy, no tact,
no impulse control, no shame,
no fundamental grasp of science,
not even the service of
an official proofreader
or spellchecker
is not upsetting.
Passing the tipping-point
of human-aided
catastrophic climate change
with a collective shrug
and a doubling-down
of business-as-usual
is not upsetting.
What is upsetting
is the growing numbness
incinerating our
collective superstructure.
What is upsetting
is realizing that faith in humanity
was firebombed decades
before observation,
like a lobster having no idea
they’re slowly being
boiled alive
until there’s steam.
What is upsetting
is our growing detachment
from the humane.
What is upsetting
is catching yourself wondering
what the victim did to provoke
such violent hatred
before remembering
that all they did was
have the audacity
to exist.
What is upsetting
is that a hilariously-terrifying,
poisonous, treasonous,
wood-rot-brained,
dementia-demigod
is executing the will
of a percentage of people
I call neighbor.
What is upsetting is receiving
such an oppressive influx
of terrible things,
that the nervous system
reflexively shuts down
to protect itself.
What is upsetting is knowing that,
even after adjusting cosmic perspective,
knowing that no one is coming
to save you from yourselves,
compelling you to root for the
sweet, sweet probability of a
random extinction meteor.
What is upsetting
is slowly realizing that
nothing is upsetting anymore.
Not even when the steam is visible.
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 16 prompt: “write a poem that uses the form of a list to defamiliarize the mundane.” Again, I took license and adjusted the scale, as I’m running dry on mundane topics and I’m a bit sleep-deprived and grumpy.
Also written for Real Toads’ day 16 prompt: “poetry as an insurgent art”.
What if Hades’ waiting room
were a McDonald’s
at 9:30am
on a weekday?
With white collar and working class
having already reported to work,
leaving only retirees
regrouping transients
and the unhurried condemned,
resigned to inevitable fate,
hastened by McGrizzled breakfasts
of dubious origin.
Youthful anachronisms
among innumerable ancient ones
include a young Asian couple
finishing their coffees and mutual flirtations,
as hand in hand, they exit the side-door,
crossing the parking lot towards the river Styx.
An even younger mother
is herding a set of toddler-twins,
awakened earlier than they prefer
as they now crankily demand
identical sausage patties
and cheap toys destined for landfills.
What if life is as
bland and purposeless as the
hashbrown I just ate?
One common element of McHades –
aside from the young lovers – it seems that
none here seems pleased with their present
or eager to embrace their futures;
it is a collective rumination,
a group-think procrastination.
What if none of this matters?
But each of us must face what comes next,
and one by one, we do,
slipping through the side-door,
first the flirting couple,
next the mother of sleepy twins,
with the countless octogenarians
each taking as much time as they wish
in gathering their past achievements
and unspoken unfilled ambitions.
What if it’s all just a game,
and I’ve been chasing the wrong things?
My phone vibrates, warning me
that I must soon return to my role
supporting the white-collar,
working-class worlds.
I finish my Sausage McBluffen with Egg
and exit through the side-door. The river
seems much closer these days, but still
I still have a ways to go.
***
Fred wanted to be a New York Yankee
But a greater calling led him to lead
Honor student; voice for impoverished need
A credible threat to bureaucracy
Uniter of races spanning rainbows
He was drugged and slaughtered by his own state
Two rounds to his skull, not the final blows
His work became bloodied, sharing his fate
We wait for justice as brown bodies pile
Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, and more
Respond as technology streams the gore
But know these slayings were here all the while
Slaughter of leaders, of boys, of teachers
In-justice? These are not bugs; they’re features.
***
Shared to NaPoWriMo’s day 4 prompt: write a sad poem that achieves sadness through simplicity.
Also shared to dVerse OLN. Other poets contributed here.
The quote “He’s good and dead now” was allegedly* said by the policeman who administered the two fatal shots to Fred Hampton’s head, execution-style.
I prefer escapism, love, loss, and the human condition over the sad realities of the world we all share, but for some reason I was moved to write about this tragedy… this massacre allegedly* sanctioned and administered by the state in 1969. It was my hope to bring perspective to all the recent alleged* murders of black men and minorities by the state captured on video, and all the hand-wringing and outrage at the judicial system’s collective shrugs.
Everyone who are wondering how we could possibly let this happen in the twenty-first century needs to know that it has always been happening for the past 400-plus years. You only get to witness the massacres second-hand through the miracle of modern technology.
(*I added allegedly for legal reasons… but come on now. Y’all know what’s up.)
Belle was a humbug. No such character
could ever release a loved one from
his promise with a full heart. It is
unrealistic and takes me out of the story.
Or perhaps I should not have revisited
that tale during dreary mid-January,
with all the cheer
left at a New Year’s Eve party,
where we couldn’t be bothered to pretend
to like each other anymore. A trick
time plays on us makes us mistake three weeks
for ages ago,
and a mostly-empty midnight bus ride – heading
towards total emptiness – lurches forward
into a future free of certainty and old routines.
“End of the line, boss,”
the driver reminds me.
“You good, young blood?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I lie easily
with a smile – cause that’s my thing as
a practiced liar – skipping off
the bus into a freak wind storm.
Yes, I still skip from time to time. What,
you’ve never seen a black man on the
back-end of his twenties skip before?
It happens; get over it.
I soon stopped skipping as I began walking
North with the wind rushing me along
with the rest of the displaced litter,
placing further distance between
where we’d been, and
where ever I was going.
It began to rain that annoying Seattle spittle,
except for the random fistfuls of spite smiting me
in the face as the wind swirled and changed directions
as if it didn’t know what it wanted to be either.
I’m chilled to the bone,
knowing I deserve far worse
than this climate change.
It was only slightly too warm for snow,
but cool enough to keep me moving
through a desolate tree-lined park where
people smarter than I had long abandoned,
and the long, twisted shadows
had longer twisted memories.
“Human garbage,” mocked one of the shadows.
“You wanted her to catch you in the lie,”
sneered another. “You didn’t even have
the guts to end it like a man.”
“Shut up,” I countered. “I tried
to end it. She wouldn’t let me.”
“But now it’s different!” a third shadow joined in.
“She saw your text messages! She knows whereyou’ve been!
Where you’re going! And she still wants you back
like nothing happened! After all you let happen!”
“She knows,” I repeated,
“so we can never go back.
I made my choice.”
The darkness echoes with laughter
as the shadows talk over one another.
“What a safe and terrible answer!”
“You replaced a woman who truly loves you
with an empty vessel! An Idol of newness!”
“You’re not losing a wife;
you’re gaining a side-chick!”
“Side-chick, indeed? Ha!
You mean rebound-chick!”
“I’m sure this side-chick-rebound-upgrade is
going to work out great for you, young man!”
“I hope you are truly happy
with the path you have chosen!”
I cover my ears
and cinch-up my hoodie.
Damn know-it-all shadows.
Leaving the mocking shadows behind, I
arrive at my destination, knocking lightly
on the door, as to not disturb anyone
not expecting me who may be already
asleep. I’m just used to slinking around.
A single light comes on, and soon she
is scrutinizing my soaked face.
“I did it,” I said.
“You did it,” she repeated with a smile.
“To be honest, I didn’t think you had the guts.”
“Yeah,” I said.
She leaned into me, gently kissing my wet lips.
“Things will be different now,” she said.
“Much better than hiding. You’ll see.”
“Yeah, different,” I repeated.
But if there had been no
understanding between us,
would I have sought her out
and tried to win her now?
I knew the answer.
It’s all a big humbug.
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 3 prompt: write a poem that meanders, full of digressions, that takes its time getting wherever it’s going. Since that almost seems exactly what I always do, I really let myself ramble here. Sorry about that. 🙂
Author’s note: It’s only day three and I’m already struggling to stay on the pace! Also, between work, homelife, and writing, I haven’t tended to my reading and comments as well as I should. I’ll try to do better, but thank you all for continuing to drop in on me.
Do you remember me, Eurydice?
We danced the summer in the upside-down
In moon-soaked gardens of Persephone
Below the fruit-bats, we swooped through town
Do you recall the bells we rang;
the song I should not have sang?
Can you trace our song back to me?
Or did you forget the key?
Our harmonious flight
You took wing beside me
Our alighted midnight
When we swelled like the sea
Whether wrong, it felt right
No time for a reprieve
Weather right for delight
Harmony our main key
I could live in your light
Did you want to believe?
Do you remember me, Eurydice?
August nights in electric tide pools
You inhaled habits that felt unhealthy
We exhaled our smoke of fools
Do you recall my answer, miss,
when you asked me for a kiss?
Do you regret the spell?
Cause I don’t kiss and tell
Reminisce on our bliss
Time much shorter than this
Did I comfort you well?
Lost our reprieve from hell
On this I feel remiss
Looking back gives me fits
An improper farewell
Orpheus when you fell
Can we crawl from abyss?
Do you remember our kiss?
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day two prompt: write a poem that resists closure by employing many questions and ending with a question. I enjoyed this one and wanted to add to the unsettling vibe by playing with the cadence and changing it up from time to time.
I carved a wish and let it rot
Do not make us a trite cliché
We wandered lives we both forgot
In overripe, fragrant decay
Do not make us a trite cliché
Your focus shifts, discarding me
In overripe, fragrant decay
Your hold on me, an empty plea
Your focus shifts, discarding me
I know that look, lived in its gaze
Your hold on me, an empty plea
Our history, beautiful haze
I know that look, lived in its gaze
We wandered lives we both forgot
Our history, beautiful haze
I carved a wish and let it rot
We wandered lives we both forgot
You flirt with him, turning the page
I carved a wish and let it rot
A labored pace, our passing age
You flirt with him, turning the page
In your heart, I am long replaced
A labored pace, our passing age
A sketched-out dream blotted; erased
In your heart, I am long replaced
It seems your wish has withered too
A sketched-out dream blotted; erased
Yet I still smile at dreams of you
It seems your wish has withered too
I carved a wish and let it rot
Yet I still smile at dreams of you
We wandered lives we both forgot
I carved a wish and let it rot
As all things end in their own time
We wandered lives we both forgot
Melodic memory sublime
As all things end in their own time
I wish you love and a full plate
Melodic memory sublime
We conjugate, entwined by fate
I wish you love and a full plate
As we are not a trite cliché
We conjugate, entwined by fate
In overripe, fragrant decay
We wandered lives we both forgot
I carved a wish. And let it rot.
***
Written for dVerse Poetry Forms – The Pantoum, hosted by Gina. Other poets’ contributions to this prompt can be found here. I probably veered slightly from the authentic structure of a pantoum, but I knew from the moment I read about this form that I wanted to tinker with it.
My thoughts on the origin of this poem: Nothing major. Wifey and I were discussing how our previous marriages and romantic relationships ended and how we often have moments of clarity when a relationship has tragically run its course prior to either party officially announcing the ending.
This part of a relationship is rarely a positive experience, as rarely do both parties come to the same conclusion at the same time. Someone always wants to hang on a bit longer, and that makes things rather messy.
This poem is a fictional account of an idealized version of one of these endings where both parties maintain a semblance of dignity and equanimity at journey’s end. I like to think that the couple in the poem remained good friends even after their romantic journey ended.
Feel free to offer constructive feedback if you feel moved to do so. Or not. No pressure, either way.
What a
bizarre perverse
spectacle we must be
to anyone with the gift of
vision.
Contorting our delusions
to fit absurd collective
narrative illusions.
Your happiness is
worthless
to me
and yet
I weigh my worth upon you saying
that you are pleased by my efforts
to bring happiness directly
to your seat with a smile in my voice
fit to claw your eyes out
to minimize eyestrain.
As I strain,
monks go door to door
with empty bowl in hand and
it is filled more often
than not.
If it be a sin
to covet a neighbor’s empty bowl
then I am the foulest
most wretched creature living
if one could subscribe
to the false illusion that
somehow this is life.
But I lie while lying;
it is his heart I covet most.
I would reach into him and
feast right upon it,
right there in his face,
sitting upright, cross-legged
upon the dusty,
nutrient-starved earth, and he
quietly, peacefully
would mourn the fact that
he only had the one
heart to offer,
withholding nothing.
I don’t even count them
as withholds anymore,
for they are nothing to behold;
I place the holy magic beans
inside the divine tabernacle
and watch random gods of diversion
snatch them all away like a
school of piranha
picking clean the bones of my
counterfeit coffers.
Thus, am I served.
It would be cute
to call it being
eaten alive,
but that would play to
the illusion that the beans,
the tabernacle
and my convent with the gods
ever existed and that
somehow,
this is living.
Oh, what a bizarre spectacle I must be
to anyone with the true gift of sight.
But I am ready.
Ready to leave it all behind,
take a leap into the absence of lore,
and see for myself
what this living business is all about.
Perhaps
the best part of
my yet-to-be-told tale
will be when I ended service
and served.
My story begins on the last page.
***
(Video is only loosely related to the poem. I only included it because I really loved the movie, and it makes me feel better about things in my life that kinda suck right now.)
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 