Friday, July 27, 2012

Polar Thief


A bear creeps
In the coldest of regions
Perhaps

Too far North for one to see,
Visually
Yet far enough
South to tuck under a mountainous fog

It thinks it’s hidden
With pale coat
And proud strides
Behind the protective cloak
Of blurred distance

With a confounding grumble
The bear strokes the embers of
A smoldering pile of sticks

But it has been seen
And felt
Like blood rushing to the head
After a jolt up
Towards the suns stretching limbs.

The beast has been known
For many years
Many, many years
Many, many lives
Though this one incarnate
Has left a sloppy trail of muddy paws prints
Across the back upon which
I’ve carried its memory.

Stupid bear.
Stupid, stupid bear. 
Oh
Fuck it all

Oh
Fuck it all

All will get fucked
By something
Or somebody
Eventually

Hell, maybe even more than once

So, let us get it done
Yes, tonight
The many Marguerites sing
Fuck it all

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Route of Blood to the Wind (Ruta de sangre al viento)

When daises no longer cradle you
because they follow me,

when you ask the wind for my name,
and the wind has forgotten even my echo,

when I shall be pretty clouds crossing your memory,
with what love will you care for the souls of my verse?

With the bird-love that followed my mornings,
when I found my warble rolling in your flight?

With the water-love that displaced my anguish,
when my timid waves plowed your sleep?

With the quiet love of rapture and ecstasy
with which you loved my wandering dreams in the night?

With the sprout-love that defied currents,
and plunged me on the winged peaks by the sky?

With the small love, careless and absent
with which you loved my childish tender games?

With what love will your hands take blandly,
the small still body of your sad memory?

Will you speak of my face
to the silent verses?

Will you tell them you saw me opening life to them
over a bad of waves and fantastic oars?

Will you show them the trail of birds and warbles
that with me in their wings, flooded your breast?

Will you water their yearning to kiss my eyes,
with the image of laughter in my last illusion?

Will you hide the history
that downed my sailboat?

Or will you take their souls to a tomb of clouds
that came and left with me?

If your eyes stay to spy on me in the summits!
With what love, my love, will you care for me verse?

~Julia de Burgos

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Festive

There was a lot of dust
and sun
the type that crackles
plastic things left in it's piercing vision
and stifling touch

There was uncomfortable bedding

Sunday, July 1, 2012

"somewhere in there behind my ears and beside my eyes"


Who wants to smother their feelings in order to be accepted?
Or pretend that something doesn’t exist because it’s not reflected
In the same intensity,
Received in similar propensity?

Flung onto and clung on you
My smoldering streams of feeling

I could never hope for such a return
From the locked up quadrants of what you called love

Who wants to always be a source of stress?
Or nervousness…
A tick that never fades
Curtained by someone’s weak, fearful masquerade?

Seven months into a new year and I still bare the scars
One year almost now
Cut endlessly with rejection’s crystallized shards

But who wants to be a pain?
Or cause a fuss and make things undone.
Who wants to uncurl the flowers dried up edges,
Or twist the rope's fibers the other way ‘round?
Who wants to let their heart melt into a small bowl,
Then scoop it out served sunny side up on a piece of toast?

Who wants to continually ask: “what if?”
Or “why not?”
Or “why?”
Or “what the hell!”

Who wants to feel like the center of a spider web shatter on a sheet of glass? 


I’m retired from self-sacrifice
And though I’ve made a pretty dependable income
Thus far
I’m looking for a profession
With sunnier perks,
Less intimidated co-workers,
And a sustained well in which I can float my paper boats
Made of
Pure, raw, messy love.