Long Cartilage Poems
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Hear the loud deafening cries of a black woman
A woman once silenced by pain unknown to every man
I was stuck in a mansfield yielding contaminated crop and weeds
Weeds from a seed fertile with deception and greed
Planted by his divided heart of more want than need
I loved him with every fibre, muscle and bone cartilage
But even that could not save me from this fatal carnage
I was caught in the eye of a storm of love
A love never meant to be yet fit so perfectly like a glove
My soul took it all in with no inhibitions or measures
The promises turned to lies of mere guilty pleasures
I experienced the agony of watching a lover love another
My voiceless heart shattered in agony like no other
But I stood still in the midst of rolling sea billows
Now I have become renewed like freshly growing willows
I’ve silenced my cry and my tears have run dry
Although my love for him may never die,
I can move on and still try
Knowing inside that a black woman’s love,
Though sometimes it may hurt and cry,
Like deep blue running waters, it will never run dry…
Degenerative joint disease equals pain.
Cartilage wears away bone touches bone.
Each movement becomes a difficult strain.
From once silent lips now slow releases moans.
Comfort~freedom from pain now luxury.
Carefully words form a line on paper.
Depression could follow in a hurry.
No! Will not summit nor will I confer
to being trapped at home unadorned
with life, viewing humans and the wide world
from a window or a TV condemned
to no life~let new life be unfurled.
Life explored not sipped suckled but imbibed.
Pour life ~ fill me with what God has prescribed.
Contest:"Things That Suck"
Sponsor:Nancy Jones
In the beginning, there was salt.
It hung in the air like unfinished scripture,
gathered in the throat of the sea,
waited for a mouth dumb enough
to mistake thirst for an invitation.
Then butter,
smeared on the void like gossip,
greased the dark’s knuckles
like an understudy,
taught the abyss to melt.
The first sound was not speech—
it was a swallow,
a hush,
a crack of cartilage between molars.
We spoke in reductions.
Grammar dripped from the bones.
On the second day, teeth—
tiny altars lined with nerve—
ground memory into ashable pulp.
Pomegranates burst like promises.
Figs cloaked their apples in lace.
By the third, we named what softened.
We named what burned.
Built ziggurats from rind to rind.
Wrote psalms in onion skin.
The fourth hung hunger in the firmament—
a constellation shaped like mouths
mid-ask.
On the fifth, we forgot the recipe
and mourned it like a god.
By the sixth, we’d tongued every fruit
that offered a rumor of sugar.
We learned:
the mouth is a beast with no leash
and excellent taste.
And on the seventh, we lay full and feral,
belly to sky,
licking
the holy oil from our fingers.
If stars could see the sun~
slurping the grunglethorp grains
from sweat-soaked streams,
purging puddles of blurmorgris,
you’d hear the phazephonyx symphony
of my intestines churning chyme
into acidic rhymes~
releasing piled pain upon
a peezling palette of biled ballads.
But why are the whistling whirls
tangled in throttled thickets,
weeping amidst the periwinkle werifesteria,
grooving to the garglesome wind
that suffocated the cartilage
within the dry throat of wilderness~
ready to lure purple, perplexed pupils
to the reeking ruins of once upon
a rosy rendezvous,
where picturesque polaroids
of thanatophobic thistles
fear the pungent aroma
of decayed desires~
drenched in the stale shadows
of whiskey specters,
cloaking wisteria wishes
fluffed with puffs of fluorescent fleur,
designing a sky dressed
in the darkest dews of rainbow rhinestones.
So let the grotesque seeds
of passion-fruit moon
embrace the fossilized fragrance
of fated flames,
flickering mercuric beams
splattering grubblortz
sherbet of seven stars,
for between the rising of blortmusk blurs
and setting of fermented fog
you will see the light~
awakening the parietal lobe
of cracked constellations,
merging rivers and lakes
like the calloused corpus callosum,
while mumbling gibberish in
sheer eloquence…
If to live,
I shall master the sticky sails
across saccharine deceit,
I will forever steer
letters glazed with remnants of pests
to land in a canvas of magnified grey matter,
an embodiment of an aesthetic disaster.
A stoic
shall wear
it like a smuggled soldier,
masquerading eclipsed heartbeats
with crystal-clear
carpe-diem calligraphies,
until the sun and moon forget
the putrid recipe
of a philosophical ponderer,
waltzing through
corridors of cathartic crumble,
frogs cradling crashed
comets dusted with cosmic chemicals
regurgitating unicorn droppings
and cavalry waste.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight.
It clicks like disapproval down the stairs,
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
At seventeen, I ran until too late—
now cartilage remembers every dare.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight.
The doctor called it mild, then moderate,
prescribed his pills and physical repair,
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
I miss the thoughtless body, its clean slate,
the kneeling, leaping, dancing unaware.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight.
Some mornings it predicts the weather’s state,
a creaking oracle that I can’t spare—
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
I’ll walk again, they say, but hesitate
means something now, and trust is what wears bare.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight,
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
Pounding at the resonant head
of my chest—he of hunger
latches his fangs just beneath my jaw—
not to sever silence, but to pummel poison.
Tissue parts with wet reluctance,
he with need more than malice
burrows into the larynx of what
was once controlled, fearful sound.
Nameless, shapeless he who
with shark-possessed teeth does not ravage—
but infiltrates—peeling cartilage from confession,
mining marrow-thoughts clogged in
curse-traversed trachea.
I am a conduit split open—
voice extracted in ligaments,
fibrous and twitching,
stripped from the cords—
myofibrils separatus tendon.
Nameless, shapeless he!
How does he so musically reshape
what I cannot say?
How does he gut syllables
I do not recognize—
yet still, convince me
they are mine?
With his guiding talons,
my breath comes out red,
heavier than blood—
tastes of steel-bitten soul—
boiled vowels
that never knew air
but somehow rise.
His incantation:
Spiritus somni!
Spits into my mouth—
a blessing—not!
a summons—not!
but a shameful dream behind my teeth
like bruises that speak sermons.
Nameless, shapeless he…
He says I was never mute—
only sealed for some latter doomsday…
And now, with my throat laid open like a shrine,
he listens as I blaspheme
my dream.
Kiss me when the sun sleeps
when the blazing sun doth rise,
hold my trepid skin timorous
with a requited reassurance
we’ve not been broken
of soulmate incarnate
ecstasy within our grasp
of this comes beautiful
hold me tight, my love
Nirvana’s desaturated shade, awaits
soft pink and warming gray, above
behind a burning turmeric glow
under an apocalyptic sky
brawn banished, lips silenced
after every word is spoken
sanctioned skeletal forms
melded are two mortalities
fusing into one metaphor
birth of man, woman, death infinite’s
earth, wind, fire, water embossed
no diener for dystopia
only death lives in destruction
crimson deserts recreated
ashen corpse servant
no hand his bones shall fall
sealed is our eternal love
our homeland a morgue
ossified cartilage caresses
immortalization in
pulverized sand dunes
touched by the flurries
of vaporized gold dust clusters
opportune eyes fell upon
excavating earth organs ripped open
evil befell the resilient relentless
by all that glittered gold
golden buried stones
by the arid drones
our existence erased
no genogram depiction,
not relevant to treatment
ashen of undying souls
are there more lives,
…what do you think?
Yup, you red correctly,
this noggin must go
perhaps donated
to the Salvation Army, or Good Will
cuz, said atrophied cranial
horridly styled comfortably numb skull,
the source of immeasurable
beg hot ten woe, from dawn to dusk
nothing boot eve ville
hollow cavity mainly comprised
of wooly webbed weaving waste,
uber sawdust, sans Schuylkill
River effluvium and runoff rotten rill
hence, e'en a think tank
designated as Abby Normal
formerly atop a body named Phil
lip, or Wright winged Orville
one half brotherly duo,
the other sibling Wilbur,
whom both made a mill
yen legends getting airborne their lil
mechanical contraption
atop Kitty Hawk,
North Carolina with bi sic kill
mechanical aptitude,
when born aloft Kill Devil Hill
synonymous making fin hushed
blue prints emulating
flying fish, whose grill
like cartilage backbone
precursor to Evil
Knievel, who soared
on his motorcycle a devil
lush daring stuntman,
whose helmeted crown
full pursestrings muted cavil
ling critics with legitimate enterprise
earning gobs of legal tender,
whence aye aver
his mugshot ought to appear
on common denomination bill
and/or honoring throughout
the entire month of April.
2/10/21
"Never Mattered"
Folks so hesitant and others far too eager
You either do or don't got a fever
Non or a true believer
In the ever after
Worlds being forever shattered
I always had to be a clever bastard
Got to get it done, can't rely on a benefactor
Had to realize certain things never mattered
Always regardless of the weather pattern
A planet full of far too many carcasses
And far too many drugs all around, even from the pharmacist
If you never give up, life can be marvelous
People support or march against
Most likely won't be, but there needs to be an armistice
Here we go, it starts again
They'll cause fights and arguments
Went right over their heads, for them it was too hard to get
Let's be honest, only made of bones, muscle, organs and cartilage
Not immune to arsenic
It can be fatal causing harm quick
The tides changed, the tables turned and the cards flipped
Near and far from any market
Earth, tile, wood or carpet
Secrets getting leaked, or they are kept
Taken serious or disregarded
People so foolish or some of the smartest
Staying bitter or having feelings of stardust
Humans are cold-blooded and evil, or they are just
I was moving towards the light, yet remaining in darkness
Until I actually turned into Clark Kent
It's not farfetched
Still beings are exaggerating, always trying their darndest
Putting forth the very hardest
And still never hitting the targets
I was always looking for someone
While living among the stars, moon and the sun
Out to live it up, not just here for love and fun
Still one hell of a son of a gun
I was always the underdog, rarely ever had a plus one
I've put my trust in some
Battles lost but the war was just won
I got it done in blood
Continually I dug in mud
I am not the one to judge
It's been years, not weeks or a month of
The drink and drugs is what I got numb from
While dealing with conundrums
Most assumed there was humdrum
Is there really anything below or up above?
From marrow to vein the thin thread of memory drags another new malignancy out into the light.
I shall tuck it, as a gift, within Destot’s space and leave it to harden and calcify until it’s colour is pale and stony.
This new seed inside my hidden framework will soon germinate, but will never push out towards the dying constellations.
Instead, it will coil its way along ulna, humerus and clavicle and bind bad dreams into a hard, red jewel that will nestle between skull and vertebrae.
Cartilage grinds and sinew creaks as this bud of echoes sprouts and entwines
up through mandible and tooth.
Knife to neck, hand in pajamas, sodden mattress, accusations, laughter under dimming lights.
All of these petals are forever open and held aloft by invading stems that relentlessly offer up the blooms of another time.
I am encased, but the stories of my joints continue to thrive and search a path through my skeletal remorse.
And I will always stop to smell the flowers.