I cannot push aside
the memory of injustice
fueling the engine of
your supply and my demand.
All are soiled in it;
the way of the world,
it is our way,
but not mine anymore.
Bound by red thread,
I’ll tend our union’s garden.
***
a peace profile
in sepia tones and
cotton candy dreams.
She is of crescent moons
golden curves and
star shine reflected in
half-open eyes of
REM sleep
digesting another day
on the apex of praise
attention, and even parody;
a knowing eye-twinkle at rest;
grace under any light
lunar or lampoon;
luminous
even among blackened
new moon night;
She is earthshine;
a crest of coral ocean foam
only hinting at the volume
of her riches within;
of permanent afterglow
guiding her acolyte home.
She is of resting face, lines
curving down at the corners;
not a frown, but layered
determined peace; a portrait
of meditative resolve
smoothed upon a
capricious landscape.
She is a cosmos
unto herself
but even she has
her breaking point;
she greets me at her center,
with shoulders slumped;
her horizon curves
back onto me,
and I learn of the depths
of my own strength
holding heaven aloft
with only my two frail arms
and everything I am
The nature of things is that
I am and she is.
But often I am
because she is.
Occasionally I am
so that she is.
***
She was the first breath of spring
puncturing a stubborn morning frost.
She was jazz blooming from blues,
she was sacred verse bursting from psalm.
She was unrefined snorts and belly-laughs;
she was knowing eyes that knew better.
She was a midnight pub-crawl;
she was of pre-dawn shared comfort food.
She was nothing imagined
and everything desired;
she was love’s bloom; a promise kept.
And I am the fool hunter
who grasped at her corona,
eternally driving her from my reach.
***
Yes, I’m still overdosing on Hamilton. I’d ask Wifey to intervene, but we’re on this bender together. I have no regrets.
I’m sure we’ll return to normal soon, but have you seen my country’s normal? I say, let’s take all the manufactured joy we can get.
A concession
less than you planned
is often framed at a glance
as better than
nothing,
as there is nothing less
than nothing.
As in an absence of sound
where a voice should be,
a musical measure
that halts
three beats
before the melody,
an expected reply
to a query of love
that is absent
unexpectedly.
Nothing is both
beginning and end
and it is often neither;
it is nowhere we want to be
and everywhere, inevitably;
a closed door left ajar;
no closure, just a far-off view
of horizon unchanging.
Nothing is not an answer we expect,
but often by not getting it
it’s the answer that we get.
Nothing is what she said
before leaving
after leaving I love you’s
scrawled in condensation
on our shared mirror
before evaporating
into nothing.
***
I know I said that I would be back to writing more frequently, but I wasn’t expecting to become addicted to the Hamilton musical on Disney+
Seriously guys, every waking hour has been spent watching Hamilton, obsessing over Hamilton, breaking down the amazingly dense lyrics to Hamilton, analyzing the musical motifs of Hamilton, watching YouTube videos of others who’ve been analyzing Hamilton, also watching reaction videos of Hamilton, learning the actual history of the real Alexander Hamilton, and well, you get the idea.
Truth be told, the Hamilton Era is the most entertaining of this global pandemic that has exposed my nation as a failed plague-state. It’s way better than the Tiger King Era, and it’s not even close. At-me at your own peril, but I promise, I have the receipts:
Anyway, yes, I’m still alive. Here’s a poem about nothing. Now I gotta get back to watching Hamilton. See you in a week or two.
It is a
terrible gestating
within
a low, relentless
rumbling thunder
in the distance
deep within
the abysmal well
of its own gravity
roiling and boiling
over upon itself
causing tremors
suppressed with
a trembling will
peeling steel plating
from iron bones
unsealed
it tears itself
from diaphragm
all lung
trachea
phalanx and phlegm
behold as trembles
once secured by
butterflies
now transmuted
shattering bedrock
to find fault in
fault lines
as timid heads flinch
and even the bold
cower in confusion
oh yes
that heaven-piercing howl
is my voice
it is mine
your inherited rights
those monolithic
brittle sensibilities
are yours
for now
steady yourself
or don’t
you and I are
well past decorum.
***
Sorry I’ve been away for so long, but the world is burning, and video games have been a mighty fine distraction from it all.
Self-care? Self-care.
My current game of choice has obviously been the Final Fantasy 7: Remake on PS4. I’ve already beaten the game, but hey, why not go for 100% completion?
I think I’m ready to face the world again. Thanks for your patience.
Bonus video, because I couldn’t settle on just one…
Imagine a world
where property value,
tax-paid infrastructure,
the rule of law,
justice’s infuriatingly slow
machinations,
tact, decorum,
gold prices and golden manners,
collective peace-of-mind,
tranquility of greater-good,
and the easy flow of
status-quo traffic
and blissful return to
whatever we consider
our communal normal
were all more important
than the unconscionable
completely avoidable
death of your son,
or brother,
or father,
or lover.
Really imagine it though,
and feel free to sub-out
and imagine your daughter,
sister, or mother instead
murdered by the state;
I didn’t recommend it
because I’m no monster.
Now sit with that moment,
that overcooked despair
and rage as your civic institutions
tell you with a dismissive shrug
that his death was unavoidable,
his assailants, servants of the state
are good and normal in completing
the task of snuffing-out his light
and your reaction to his
completely avoidable death
is completely unreasonable and
lives as proof of the sole reason
why guys who look like him
– and yes, who look like you too –
are routinely slaughtered by the
state-sanctioned violence
in the first place.
He’s never coming back,
his voice forever silenced
and there is no one
with leveraged power
to champion his cause,
to validate your grief,
nowhere to turn
to wring meaning from
your loss.
What would you do?
What is your next move?
Whatever you decide,
best be quick about it.
Monday’s coming,
and you’d better be on time
with a smile on your face
and a song in your heart.
Wouldn’t want to give anyone
within the superstructure
the wrong idea
that you’re angry or resentful
or one of those malcontents
out there
disrupting
the established order.
***
“But it is not enough for me to stand before you tonight and condemn riots. It would be morally irresponsible for me to do that without, at the same time, condemning the contingent, intolerable conditions that exist in our society. These conditions are the things that cause individuals to feel that they have no other alternative than to engage in violent rebellions to get attention. And I must say tonight that a riot is the language of the unheard. And what is it America has failed to hear? It has failed to hear that the plight of the negro poor has worsened over the last twelve or fifteen years. It has failed to hear that the promises of freedom and justice have not been met. And it has failed to hear that large segments of white society are more concerned about tranquility and the status quo than about justice and humanity.”
– Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
I borrowed these helpful links from https://tumblr.theblackout.org/
Donate/Boost/Sign:
Mental Health Resources:
Tips for Organizing/Protesting:
Stay safe. Much love.
Trailing the golden hour
everyone craves and praises,
there’s another wondrous state;
a shade of blue found
only in nature,
in latitudes nearing the poles,
nearing summer solstice,
just beyond sunset,
just before night snaps shut,
just above shadowed tree line,
when the sky reflects only
what’s needed; apology,
forgiveness, promises vowed
and kept, secrets shared
with roosting songbird and stirring frog as
coyote announces dinner to her band;
other than sunlight’s brashness,
coyote azure is the only color
that is felt and heard
more than seen.
Today is cloudless and fair,
and I look forward to
hearing this evening’s colors.
***
I.
I dreamt I died today,
and this was my last poem,
which isn’t a big deal;
I have died twice before,
run-through at seventeen,
undone at twenty-eight,
Respawning’s not instant;
often years overlap
some pieces remain lost,
the burn unrelenting
as pain from phantom limb
connect me to this realm.
Vast, and marvelous, we
are no more than my dream;
reality is me.
We cling to each other,
turbulent distractions,
our skin, burdened touchstones;
massaged lies, we embrace
pleasure clawed from our truth;
we’re so very alone.
Love me without knowing,
you’ll never see the seams
that bind the shame that is.
I would taste better as
ashes upon your tongue.
Love me until the void.
II.
Nothing warned me; nothing prepared me.
There was no vocabulary
for the remnants, for when the sun
turned away, withholding all of nature.
Nothing foretold the catastrophe,
nor was it immediately known, but felt
in phases; a series of cascading
calamities leaving the world dimmer
in stages as sources of nourishment
withered and fell like so many dominoes,
and soon, I found myself face-down
on momma’s couch, immobile,
unresponsive to external pleas to eat
or demands to get my shit together.
Soon, external voices no longer registered
as loud as the absence of the one who
no longer cared if I ate or starved,
and so I fell, falling behind the
dimming event horizon, leaving
only with what I entered; ending
as I began, staring into the space
between atoms as fields dissolved
and barriers melted to nothing.
III.
Perhaps in another life,
in a reality we’ll never know
I persevered against your will
shattered your absurd barriers
and married you.
I made you happy, filled your cup,
and exposed your doubts
and the specters of my many fears
as foolhardy fairy tales.
We had a girl and fought furiously
to name her; I wanted Olivia,
you demanded something African
that I couldn’t pronounce.
We compromised, choosing Nefertari
with Olivia as her middle name and
I was a good dad.
We loved each other
and lifted each other up,
instead of yielding to fear,
spite, and desperation,
but I guess if that all came to pass,
I wouldn’t really be me,
you’d be someone else,
and our daughter, a specter;
just another fantasy
of a foolish old man.
Stare into the void long enough
and the phantoms name themselves.
IV.
We all feel that lonely, empty,
meaningless pull towards twilight
of eternal nightshade where the
unknowable hell-verse beckons
as a perverse lullaby to our
seemingly incessant suffering
and so we are compelled to seek
its finite serenade towards infinity.
We hope to name it in order
to cast it back into its bottle;
we will ourselves to defy it
by defining it for ourselves, for
to chronicle it is to vanquish
its unshakable power over us.
We scrawl the void in ink and blood
and then someone labeled it poetry.
V.
In some eastern religions,
philosophies, and fiction,
heaven and hell are recast
as reincarnation and
the void; an endless chasm.
It is said that if our souls
carry too much vile darkness
at the instant of our death,
instead of our soul’s rebirth,
the last remnants of our light
are cast into the abyss,
never to feel warmth again,
left alone in an endless
chasm of despair alone
with the dreadful comfort of
all terrible emotions
imaginable to us.
At first blush, that doesn’t sound
all that bad to me; in fact,
it sounds like a fine place where
the best poetry is forged,
but never allowed to see
the light of a brand-new day.
But on second thought, perhaps
eternal life in darkness
as death’s greatest unshared poems
really is a hellish fate
to avoid at all cost.
***
Shattered glass,
streets littered with trash,
defiant fists raised,
“peace-keepers” overwhelmed.
You can only push
cornered, hopeless folks so far
before they push back.
Tomorrow, streets will be cleaned,
windows boarded and replaced,
shops will reopen,
life will continue
as if the raspy cries
for fair wages and trades
had never happened.
The pulse of cosmopolitan life
requires each person
to know their place in the world
and do their part,
but what of those who
wholeheartedly reject the
collective vision?
They’re dismissed as crazy
until they begin to wake others.
Then they are swept away.
Next comes more broken glass,
sometimes on May Day, and
often on any random day
after disruptive, “crazy”
voices are silenced, but
that’s easily swept away too.
Pay those crazy, cornered,
fist-pumping folks no mind.
Tomorrow the stores will open on-time.
***
NaPoWriMo Day 30: Today’s prompt:
And last, but not least, our final (optional) prompt! In some past years, I’ve challenged you to write a poem of farewell for our thirtieth day, but this year, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something that returns. For, just as the swallows come back to Capistrano each year, NaPoWriMo and GloPoWriMo will ride again!
Sorry to end NaPoWriMo on such a dismal note. I could’ve gone with some type of spring renewal, but I guess I wasn’t there.
I was just sitting here thinking about how the COVID-19 pandemic will most likely (and rightfully) squash the May Day protests tomorrow, but our US (and nearly global) capitalist economy is just chompin’ at the bit to throw our sick, broken bodies back into the churn, risk-assessment be damned. I hear talk of rushing to get “back to normal”, and it just makes me wonder, normal in relation to what, exactly?
Thanks for hanging with me this month. I’ll see you back here next year, but until then, feel free to hang out and read my infrequent poetry postings.
What can I say, Wolf?
I’ve never owned any pets.
Too much overhead, too much work,
oh, and also because of slavery.
Yes Wolf; I mentioned pet ownership
and slavery in the same breath,
but it’s not like you’re gonna call me on it;
you’re just a dumb dog,
one that’s been dead
for nearly thirty years.
But fine, I remember those soulful eyes,
so I’ll try to explain it.
There’s something to be said of those
unlucky in birth who persevere
against all odds
to overthrow their oppressors in triumph.
Americans especially love these
underdog stories,
as our recorded history is full of them.
But what of the other stories?
With Tubman, Douglass, and The Amistad
as outliers of four-hundred years of
mostly humdrum,
garden-variety slavery,
with all the standard rape, abuse, and
outright murdering of slaves too stupid
to mask their intelligence,
how many stories of the voiceless do we know?
It’s weird, Wolf. You were a dog – a beautiful
German Shepherd/Doberman Pinscher mix
– but when I think of all the voiceless slaves
who were born and died in
unconscionable suffering,
I think of you.
To be honest, Wolf,
I haven’t thought of you in ages,
and that’s a shame, but
the less remembered
of your tragic life and death,
the better for me.
Or perhaps not; after all,
I’ve left your memory as it were, untamed,
but there it sits upon my return,
waiting patiently
only for me.
What if my sidestepping your legacy
is but one more injustice for you?
Our lives were intertwined for so long,
with much of the trauma descendent
directly from my ancestors in bondage.
You weren’t even my damn dog,
but I was your reluctant caretaker,
and there’s nothing poetic about
feeding you and cleaning up your shit,
but I felt your loyalty
and your agony in-kind.
Wolf, you were an idiot of a dog,
raised on ignorance and cruelty,
and yet you were still sweet and loyal.
I’d given up on hiding grandma’s tools
of discipline, as she’d just find herself
a sturdier switch to snap on ya,
but I taught you to sit using head-rubs
instead of grandma’s rubber hose;
you were always a good boy.
I wish I had told you that more.
I remember you having the audacity
to demand more head-rubs from me,
swatting at my hand with your paw
like Bunky the cat taught you,
and I happily gave them to you.
I wish I’d given you all the head-rubs.
But I’d graduated the basement
and fled to the Navy,
making the cut despite the odds.
I heard of your fate secondhand,
and I wept real tears over a freaking dog
that I didn’t even own
who lived his entire existence
chained to a waterpipe
in a half-finished basement,
life snuffed-out, most likely,
by someone well-known and trusted.
Can you imagine that?
Anyway, yeah,
I’ve never cared for any pets.
Too much overhead,
too much work,
just too much.
***
NaPoWriMo Day 29: Today’s prompt:
And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always). Today, I challenge you to write a paean to the stalwart hero of your household: your pet. Sing high your praises and tell the tale of Kitty McFluffleface’s ascension of Mt. Couch. Let us hear how your intrepid doggo bravely answers the call to adventure whenever the leash jingles.
If you don’t have a pet, perhaps you know one or remember one who deserves to be immortalized in verse. For inspiration, I direct you to a selection from an 18th-century poem by Christopher Smart, Jubilate Agno, in which the poet’s praise for his cat ranges from “For he is docile and can learn certain things” all the way up to “For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.” Personally, I’m lucky if my cat doesn’t just sleep the day away, but I find her pretty delightful all the same.
This was painful to write, and I nearly scrapped the whole thing. I kept trying to walk away from it, but it kept calling me back.
It’s unpolished, and I won’t be revisiting it at all, but Wolf deserves to have his story told.
Paranormal Women's Fiction, Urban Fantasy, and Fairy Tale Retellings with a Modern Twist
True tales over 50
exercising hearts and minds, lest they waste away
Insight and inspiration for writers and readers
Some verses, some hues
A Little Writing Workshop of Horrors.
"If you talk to God you're religious. If God talks to you, you're psychotic."
Gallery of Photography
Writing and Stuff by Chris Hall - Storyteller and Accidental Blogger
