Long Salazar Poems
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They could have ranged together foreever, in just that way
The moment of experience, un-cloaked and with innocent play
In co-creation perfect, when the Lord frequently appeared With approval and fulness of strength, and nothing he feared
Since Abel was able. That is all. Competent and true. Simple and decent.
With no agenda or aim, no cunning ploy, singing what had been recent
In the fore of his mind, as he practiced a tune sung by the Maker
It had all of the elements; a good sung to song (sing) and when beat out by a Shaker
gave to Abel the feel of the Valley floor, sauntering through the trees
Knowing which ones best to climb or to rest upon, which ones visited by bees
And those buzzin' along too added fervour and charm to the song
Made stacatto by the wounded woodpecker, fizzured by the waterfall, and then a throng
Of Quacking Ducks gave ascent to the melody with abstract acclaim
Each creature adding intensity of sound to the natural symphony that even rain
Could not anull the effect which Abel hummed about him in ambling grace
Setting the Gardens creatures to echoe his voice, even the ripple of its trace
As such, the butterfly caught up with the lad as he approached a quiet brook
The horsefly darted about; reflected on the water he could see his crook
It was one that the Lord had given him, in person, a kind of reward
The Master had told him--Abel recounted; that, to be a bard
Is the highest calling placed upon man----and the direct fashion
of Adam, the 1st Man, had been directed with all poetic devices stashed
About the garden. Except that the early fall of man qua man
had precluded the Lords consternation,--had made a loss of his plan
To fashion an Agent of Agency, much like himself, with poetic sensibility and understanding
Deep insight, sensitivity, probing knowledge, inter-connectivity, always handing
Gestures of Kindness, forward grace, intution, foresight or premonition
To each kind and creature, with soaring life, and with death in remission
Gave victory to every waking moment and in subconscious repose
God's chief agent, his first creation>carboholic, had been made already a rose
I got like a million reasons to keep it going. Because I’m determined dad.
I’m always be inside of my bag.
Trying to give my son what I never had.
And I admit that I fell off to battle all of my demons.
Call me Sorin. I’m a Mastar.
Rushing all of these beats when my flow begins.
For 6 years been makin room like Mr. B. I throw bows.
This young MC keeps going in.
They expect me to break, but, I won’t.
Cuz it’s not my ending.
So stop pretending that you haters have never stole my bars.
You can’t take my storm. Like Salazar, I’m a Slytherin through the yard.
Bar for bar, no one’s as cold as me.
Except for a certain few.
Like my homie Rugga, big Ace, Nonchalant, Halo, Billy and Clio too.
Problem cool and my sister Chu.
Rongine and that nerdy dude.
We in the streets and we paying dues.
While y’all paying boosters for fake shoes.
Y’all really are driving me insane.
I swear I be trying to stay in my lane.
But all you suckas swerving and hitting curbs.
I’m pushing you out of the game.
With the way that I be killing these flows.
I’m beginning to know.
There’s more to life than getting a hoe.
And taking her home.
And getting her to polish the chrome and ba-ba-ba-bone.
I hear these haters talking, but, they see me, ain’t a sound.
I’m known as the ring leader and you haters just some clowns.
When I start to feel the rhythm and the bass begins to pound.
I’m the Dante of the music underground.
Pull the devil trigger.
Ima heat it up. Heat it up.
Grab it up and I eat it up. Eat it up.
Any track ima beat it up beat it up.
With the way a brotha speed it up. Speed it up.
Let’s get it now.
Saw that they were happy when they thought that I was down.
So, I’m bout to hit my flicker step at the speed of sound.
Pull the devil trigger now.
On Winged Feet
I want to fly on winged feet,
I want to blaze a trail
no one else follows
and I want to carry a message to all
so Mercury would be proud.
Muscles afire on a summer day,
I want to leave all pretenders
gasping for air in a trail of my dust
for they will all know me by my speed,
a speed they can’t even imagine.
Alberto Salazar* will be amazed by me,
for I have stolen his heart of fire and his soul,
and this path laid out is my Heaven,
and no one knows it as I.
After I beat the Kenyans in a 10K,
they will go back to their villages
to train and train again,
and those along pathways and streets
will call my name long after the races
I’ve won, to live and dream
while my journey has just begun.
*Alberto Salazar- the top U.S. marathoner 1981-1982
The Poetry Reading a Sonnet
We stayed at a small hotel only brick throw away from one
of Paris’s famous hotel where British MP’s let themselves
be bribed just to stay there for a weekend with a cohort.
I was to read poetry and naturally petrified of the thought
of reading in public, but with the help of whisky was able to
perform, use a Richard Burton voice, with Norwegian accent.
Poetry is a lonely craft and when poets meet much alcohol is
consumed and for once we feel it is our work is worthwhile.
My wife was not there she was visiting her family, rich people
who lived in the heart of Paris, rue Salazar, and I had to find
my own way back to the hotel and promptly fell and I woke
Up in the hospital. Two days I was kept there, my wife came
but not her family it appears my dislike of Israel and Zionism
has hit a raw nerve, but they sent me a card with grapes on.
this will be a work in progress...with my b horror film afficienado friend
john....suggestions under comments welcome:
For near two hundred years
The house spewed death
And fear among the land
All tenants died horrible early deaths(TB)
The first, a young termagant Virago,
many a foolish man,
walked through her door
never to walk out the same. (Christy Hardy)
For their tongues became lame,
They would not speak her name
Their eyes never focused again as well
After having been through such hell(TB)
And profane prayers to
The Evil One,
Are whispered in her halls
Ghostly visions of
Sin and depravation,
Curl within the mists
of misery witnessed there-in.
Escaping Trump
They tell me the apartment I live in is posh
has three toilets and double locking doors
Each apartment has a garage in the basement
a quite murky place with rust-splattered walls
I'm sure Salazar used the place and
His secret police, one can assume, the rust is
human suffering.
Lately, many Americans have moved it to
the expensive flats on the top floors.
They appear as migrants fleeing from tyranny
reluctant to open doors to the food delivery
If he looks, sort of Mediterranean human
As I said to no one in particular, I have never
seen so many Quiet Americans