Some gates are closed, others are open
I passed them all I lived inside
The postcard views where as a postman
I brought your package every night
Check your emails if there’s a new
Stifting a yawn you find the one
In haste you almost read it through
Replying with a glint of sun
Meanwhile the coffee smells of morning
You open up the garden door
The flowers grow without a warning
As usual, as they did before.
Accustomed to the world
around him, he didn't find anything strange
when they put him to live in the asylum...
I don't always open up
I don't always close myself,
I'm neither a window nor a door...
The summer sun shines brightly, Rooster invites the day light loudly, The boy removes the blanket finally.
His mother calls him angrily, He runs into the restroom swiftly , And wears the school uniform slowly.
The school bus comes casual,
He steps into the bus unwillingly , It has been done daily as usual.
she was not your usual teacher
she taught us how to think
taught us how to believe in ourselves
how to imagine our lives full of joy
school had been boring until I met her
she would not allow my boredom to close me down
we had lunch together, and she discovered the real me
I was not the person I showed to the world
I was a thinker, who had been shut down by negativity
a girl who had forgotten how passionate new ideas are
she coaxed the little shut down child of me to play with possibilities
I began to study stars, geology, artists
I began to read biographies
She opened me up to new possibilities
Taught me to be a life-long learner
She was not your usual teacher
.
how cool the spring
'bout ourn
multi hue
hern pink
mine almost
blue
She is stunning,
And lovely as usual,
In her long hemmed flower dress
Reynaldo Casison
my daughter is on her way
not late like my sister
but late as usual
she will be full of apologies
I love them
proof she is creative
quirky like me
with a splash of imagination
here she comes now
Spring has long taken off
its Bermuda shorts.
Hawaiian shirts are left
on tree-lines to fade
under a red-faced sun.
If there are worms in the dry earth
the Robins cannot reach them,
and now scramble after
bugs on baking walls.
No one complains
except the English
and polar bears.
Hardship in America
is just called climate.
In Gentlemen's Clubs
strippers
have turned-off the stage lights,
sweat flop
cannot hold a slippery dollar.
Motel ice-machines
have succumbed to heatstroke
and only dispense
a crunchy tepid drool.
Global warmers pant
for cold beers.
Armageddon is near,
but in pats of Alaska,
summer
is just called
a milder shade of winter.
In lunch or dinner
at table my guests waiting
bees, jelly... cats, fish
Jesse Duarte
Muslim South African
Dead just before age 68
Best known as antiracism fighter
Along with Mandela
That generation is dead, it's over
Self-serving "ANC activists & comrades" remain
To steal and blame (minorities)
II
Jesse was eloquent; loyal leader & 'spokesman'
"Diminutive woman;" Dedicated warrior
Never about herself
She died today
Will be buried today
Now, her religion shows
Premiered at Woodrow’s Roadside Shelter, Vienna, MO – 2/12/2008
ACT 1
Epaminandas at Leuctra
MacMurphy’s Head
Outremer
Silent Butler
Valentine from Valley Forge
La Garde Reculé
Count It with Numbers
ACT 2
If the War Goes On
On the Eve of Camerone
Washichu
Apacharia
Stone Cold Sunshine
Remembrance Day
ACT 3
Holding Attack
End Game
Cold War Clientele
Execution Style
New Dark Ages
Burn Ward
Talking Points
Does anything ever sound more
Amazing than usual, to you?
Business As Usual
LeftBrain dominance
is fully over-invested
in the highly suspect theory
That Patriarchal/Capitalist monocultural
monotheistic intent
is fundamental to gospel
good news creation stories
and messianic anthro/divine nondualistic narratives
In which Spiritual StraightMen protagonists
outflank
and dualistically outrank
unnatural wicked EarthFeminists.
There are stretch marks for every delivered line.
Skin keeps strumming until it runs out of sweat,
incipient and membranous they arrive
through a mutual tension. On their own
words in the woods unseen,
but when pushed through a primal viscera,
they slip through wet and new.
You try to make them civilized and grown.
you know that eyes are upon you.
Birthing’s a messy affair
something you do behind swollen eyes,
a stress disorder that defies latex
or the collective humming of incubators.
Then you look down and everyone’s looking
it’s not a poem, it is a configuration
of arrhythmic pulses,
meanwhile you swaddle an indigenous form
native to a ‘no man’s land.’
You hope someone will read it to the end,
but it’s not the end, it’s another beginning.
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