Ginsberg
In memory of poet Allen Ginsberg
Have you ever read Howl by Allen Ginsberg?
Why haven’t you? You should have. You must.
If not, know this. He howls. Think Willie wagtails:
The werewolves of the bird world according to a few
University of Melbourne columnists.
Ginsberg sings. Figuratively speaking, not melodically.
When Ginsberg spits prose, he sits in darkness
and sing[s] to cheer [his] own solitude—[he] howls by the
light of the moon. Ginsberg is every poet’s bird song.
In death he still howls at the moon. The brighter
the moon, I howl too—in his name.
As Clean As A Bone
You want to write a sentence
as clean as a bone. That is the goal.
James Baldwin
I have never seen a bone of mine.
I have written a sentence though.
More than one sentence to be exact.
At least two sentences I've written.
For the epigraph above I cleaned them.
Any combination of two sentences,
I have given myself to clean them,
Stripping them of flesh and sinew,
Displacing great regard for each bone.
Where be it for presence of soul,
For the epigraph I cleaned them,
As that is the goal Mr. Baldwin.
Bridge of the Gods
exclaim—
‘O my God! the Bridge of the Gods!’
ash flakes are falling
dare i catch one on my tongue?
the Cascades are bleeding
a citrus-colored orange
if only timber could evacuate
i hear weeping and wild wailing
exclaim—
‘no one is shouting, burn baby burn!’
the moon looks poppy-colored red
among the living who lit this?
don’t be angry, there’s enough heat
seethe the citrus-colored orange
if only timber could evacuate
i see weeping and wild wailing
At Sunset Salvation Will Come
Of morning dew count every blessing
Muster enough courage to do the math
Find surprising the ecology of arithmetic
Do not leave the morning to guessing
Fully awake from slumber of sleeping
A new day has displaced the past
What were once matters of the heart
Night has dried remnants of weeping
Turn-off the nightlight for effect
See darkness flee at full daybreak
Hear the cedar waxwing whistle in song
View morning as the day’s prefect
Real aloud the verse of Dylan Thomas
At Sunset salvation will come
Therefore, a drunken stupor must not arise
Single out wine flat bread and humus
Goad his metaphors and similes
Let them glisten like un-tinted glass
Fashion an elegy befitting evening
Think of Dylan Thomas and me
Slow beat the evening drum addressing
Verse is the sunset’s dew
A new day will displace the past
Of morning dew count every blessing
Love is Freedom (Liu Xiaobo)
The lovers even China couldn't keep apart
The enduring love story of Nobel Peace Prize laureate
Liu Xiaobo and Liu Xia. Source: CNN
When a photograph,
absent a thousand words, summons,
lays hold to places under duress;
and my imagination suggests I pause—
it’s noteworthy.
Nobel Peace Prize Laureate
Liu Xiaobo and Liu Xia in embrace,
posed for a snapshot photograph that
documents and authenticates
their love, their fidelity.
Love is freedom unabridged.
Love never dies. Love lives long after
the hummingbird takes to flight,
when it has slipped
its wiry cage.
Love is not Chinese. Love is not
machinations of East nor of the West.
Love is freedom. Like the hummingbird
Liu Xiaobo has taken to flight, he’s a
hummingbird having slipped his wiry cage.
Long last love Liu Xia.
Listen to what the hummingbird sings.
Liu Xiaobo is free now. One day
you too will take to flight, slip the
wiry cage, for love is freedom.
It Was the Summer of Hate
It was the summer of hate
Out of their mouths flowed a river
The fish were filthy
And the sediment silky sentiment
Yellow skinned people weren’t
Permitted to swim
And the light skinned people
Railed against the brazen sun
It was the summer of hate
Everyone got an earful
Creating excess ear wax
Still people used cue tips
That only created impairment
This generated anger
Among the hearing impaired
Stifling understanding
It was the summer of hate
Blood-red were eyeballs
Given everyone eyed each other
No one could see others
Because when they could see
Everyone else was an ‘other’
Then fire poured from nostrils
Flames consumed each other
Turning everyone ashy
It was the summer of hate
Like eels’ eyebrows contorted
Twisting and bending as if on dry land
Suggesting the presents of anger
Women’s eye lashes flapped
Men misinterpreted the gesture
There grew more confusion
So men began rolling their eyes
It was the summer of hate
So, you can imagine how
I as a gray-brown mockingbird
Lifted higher to a new loft
Uninspired by the people below
While reveling in the freedom of
Open and unencumbered sky
With my wings unfurled—given
It was the summer of hate
Victor and Vivian
Victor consumes self-deception like volumes of self-help books.
Wet paperback ink will fade in time. If only Victor had taken to her.
Victor could have traveled to places he'd never dream of. Vivian watches
him with great distain. Victor lacks imagination. What could be something
beautiful is vain. Every love story is a tale formed in stories as old as time.
In the beginning Vivian talks to him about it. Over time Vivian's heart grew
dim. The ink in Vivian's heart faded in the wetness of her exasperation.
To Vivian love had to be about concurrence. Together, water and debris
should flow downhill. Sifting through pain is a conscious decision:
like matters considered lovely. Victor will never find help in self-help books.
Their story dried long ago in the faded ink of her exasperation.
An Unremarkable Negro
to the negro
history
has not been kind
if this negro’s history is his-story
follow the line that precedes me
follow that unimaginable journey
from humanity to inhumanity
from dignity to indignity
and yet
from the grave
Langston Hughes shouts
"I, Too, Am America!"
from the grave
James Baldwin shouts
'I Am Not Your Negro!'
from the grave
Maya Angelou shouts
"Still, I Rise!"
while I
an unremarkable negro
a negro of continuing origin
a negro following the line that precedes me
to whom
history
has not been kind
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