Three Poems | Zaji Cox

Bacchus, Caravaggio, Wikimedia Commons

Cleanse

I burned sage to clear the air of her

but she lingered,

stuck around my cluttered and dark room, sucked

at the available air, until there

was hardly any left to breathe. I kept waiting

for her to come back, to come up from behind

and press her fingers onto my face,

to dig her nails into my eyes

and stick flecks of silver polish

on my chin. I shower in cold water but still

feel her scratch down my back,

leaving raw red marks on my skin.

The Followers

Hedonistic heathens

will drink the night,

will taste ten thousand daisies

in a rose-colored city.

They will stumble in shadowed groups

under stringed lights

with mouths wide open,

drinking, grinning, falling

into each other’s arms

and sway by the road

on their way to the forest.

The heathens follow none

but their pleasures. In the trees they grasp

at each other’s palms,

reaching, wanting,

and taking. Wolves dash

at the sound of their hoots and gasps

for air in the dark. And they do not settle

but collapse, in a confused tangle,

a shared embrace like twining ivy—

a firmness that nature itself would envy.

The Mane

Today I let them see my mane. It is out

in a dark magnificent mass about my head,

not quite straight,

not quite wavy.

My mane is not like what’s been seen before—

at least not by those

who come to gape and pet,

with timid and gentle fingers.

After yearning to touch it for so long,

The fingers treat my mane like it may at once

be a thick enough jungle to trap a hand

and weak enough to fall out in clumps at a caress.

But it can handle the exploring clumsy fingers

that roam and pull its wisps up to watch them fall, the fingers

that squeeze handfuls of this new territory.

I watch a new merging

of amusement and confusion:

It’s not what they thought it would look, feel, move like.

It does not frame my face like the manes they know.

It is exotic.

I am exotic.

So strange, isn’t it?

But it won’t bite. I won’t bite,

bare my fangs with a low growl

at the errant touch.

No, today, I suppress any urge that rises

to my surface and struggles

to claw its way out. I am not ashamed.

I tell myself:

I am not ashamed.

I, forcing pride, let the hands pet my mane,

my exotic magnificent mass.

Three Poems | Renee Butner

     

Bodegón con costillas y cabeza de cordero by Francisco de Goya

Epidermis

Copper kettle burn

three hundred degrees

on my upper arm

sears black quickly

overlaid with protective scab

During the night I toss and turn

rubbed bare against silken gray sheets

the scalding of each pore

awakens me with its intensity

In the light of early morning 

fresh smooth skin

though still afire and tender

is blemish free pink and clean

Oh if my entire body could be so

Erase the anxieties that 

crease my brow permanently 

worries which turn the 

corners of my lips downward

I would step into scorching lava  

come out the other side

encased in bloody blisters

deserving of the pain

Restoration will be worth it

Bite my tongue remember kindness

       and the glistening jewel that is joy        

Domino

Overslept the alarm 

argument with spouse

ignored someone waiting for 

a parking spot and

slipped right in anyway

got the bird and

angrily returned it

snatched the last size 8

white jeans

snarled “sorry”

to the woman

reaching for them 

looked the other way

when the homeless

man held high his sign

in order for it to be seen

burned the chicken

for dinner

smothered it in bbq sauce

went to bed early and depressed

Rewind

Overslept the alarm 

ignored the complaints 

of my spouse

kissed him on the cheek

as I departed

gestured for blue car waiting

to turn out in front of me

no white jeans at 

the mall

found great buy

on denim skirt instead

“Need work” said the man's

sign on the side of the road

I handed him change

from my deal on the skirt

with my address if interested

to mow my lawn tomorrow

dinner was superb 

my bed cool and comforting

later that evening

____________________________________

Renee Butner lives in Winston-Salem, NC, in the United States where she and her husband are the owners of Kilwins,a chocolate, fudge, and ice cream shop.  She has three young grandsons whom she loves fiercely and enjoys running,reading, painting, travel and dark chocolate.  

Poem | Sharanya Manivannan | Something Was Promised Me

Roses- Van Gogh - Wikimedia Commons 

Something was promised me a long time ago,

when the world was still conspired in halves, and

each was a bowl, capable of holding, and keeping.

We were spun from each other like winged seeds

in elemental time, brought to earth by the weight of

wanting. We radiated across great distances, light

and lion-valiant. There was always rain, or the memory

of it. I filled myself to the brim, and kept searching.

My palms were held ever open. I sullied my fate lines with

the small spines of feral roses in the overgrown briars,

while at my back the sun reminded me how the world that

had come to pass into being was patterned and circinate.

I would call your name if I knew it. But that too was

taken in the wind, or left at the red altars at each border

where I settled to wait for something else to say.

Perhaps I will only know you by the soles of your feet,

filthy with long travel and untranslated experience. But you

who also spun so far away, will you appear, will you stay?

Poems | Suzi Kaplan Omstead

A mandala painting, via icollector.com

                                                                         

FUCK FEAR

There’s a lot of talk of fear of failure

If you waste your youth

As I did mine

Actually, I was a prolific waster of youth

Or maybe I just had a lot to squander

I never thought I’d live this long

My opportunities to fail were legion

And if you ask my parents I was still a greedy bitch

Fear of failure sounded like a Zen koan to me

Of course I longed for fame and riches

It consumes every child’s dreams

But I’m a grown up, mostly, now

I couldn’t give a half-hearted fuck for failure

And I’ve given one, even more, for things prized higher

The mercy fuck, the-I’m-too-tired-to-not give a fuck, the “a fuck for this guy will actually be a service to the world at large” fuck

But I’ve never fucked for success

Only an idiot writes poetry seeking fame and fortune

That’s why they invented screenplays

Though the odds are better if you buy a lottery ticket

Success doesn’t elude poets because they fear success

It eludes us because our primary audience is other poets

The Irish are correct when they say

“If you want to see how God feels about money, see who gets it”

Success may be getting what you want, but invariably a new place called “success” appears just at the horizon. 

If you are quick, you’re going to figure out that the new place is the same as the old place, and you’re just a hamster on a wheel. 

If you’re stubborn, it might take a few more tries, but on the bright side, those hamster wheels are great cardio, and will get you a magnificent ass.

I’m no believer in perpetual happiness as an end goal

Failure is the salt that sweetens tequila and caramel

It’s the amuse bouche life provides

So the joyous times, however brief, are worth the striving

Even if they occur when we’ve just stepped in dog shit

Or when bird’s aim was perhaps too good, and covered a shoulder in crap

Or are followed by having the one to whom we risked our heart return it

grilled in garlic and hot spices

No matter how wonderful, how special, how destined for greatness in another life, any of us may be

There are billions and billions of us

At least a billion extraordinary folks who will never know what my parents called “success”

Special has never been the criteria that determines worldly accomplishment

What is the actual price of trying and failing?

It’s exactly the same life we already have

Fear of failure is only meaningful if success is important

And what moron decided that?

Besides my parents, of course

Doing what you love, what you are moved to do by unseen forces,

For no good reason beyond the fact that time disappears while you’re doing it

And every once in a while, create something you love,

Regardless how anyone else feels about it

(As long as you aren’t expecting anyone else to support your endeavors)

That IS success my friends, and if it’s what you’re doing

You have made yourself a very special life

AGENT OF CHAOS

I'm an agent of chaos sent to make sure calm consistency is the one thing he never gets.

Be careful what you wish for, and never make a vow you can't keep

Ask to churn the depths of Samsara

Don't expect margaritas with salt

The Lamas speak of terrifying charnel grounds to do your Chöd practice

When the demons, ghosts and monsters come for you

Stay still, and offer your own flesh to feed their hunger

Silly bunny, kicks are for kids

The punchline to an old joke I don't remember, but still think is funny as hell

I’ve never been in a graveyard that scared me

It's where we went to get stoned

Visiting the Sharon Tate house on Cielo, Murder in this sky

But I've been tortured by doctors my whole life

So the demons come to me

Mostly kind, with good intentions

The sort that will probably ensure that these words die barely heard

And I offer up my flesh with the best humor I can muster

I know a charnel ground when I'm in it

And I’ve never broken a vow

Poems | Kristiane Weeks

painting by Edward Henry Potthast, Wikimedia Commons

Meltdown

Under emeralded blades
she sings glow
tuned to radio breath,

winded city into underworld

she lines paved highway with
radiating lymph nodes,
five-footed rabbits.

Monologue with holed
tongue, lick green

taste of Rocky Road Flat
flavor, lick fuzz of weaved dream-weaver
lineage hooked into
Ginsberg rant on canker-hex,

who else stands in nuclear
hands, fingers painted with tiny
brush, dip, dipped with poison?

Pinhole poison, hers is not the hand,

dip, dip, blued dot, dot
invisible ink
spread out like black holes,
star spaces wait
to show them up,

make them eat soil
soaked with thousands of years of

skeleton sludge,

at least these pucks are

shaped into anniversary cakes.

QUESTIONNAIRE for a REVOLUTIONARY

What are the sounds of change?

How many land sounds are cueing you?

What sound do you hear on the Mexico border?

What cries are you ignoring?

What is going on?

What is the sound of war?

Are you listening for boots in sync?

What is your battle anthem?

Is your tempo fast-paced or slow?

If you lay your head on the grooves does it heal or hurt you?

What sound releases you to run free?

What are the sounds of protest?

What is a protest song?

How many protests are songs?

How much is thoughtlessness preventing revolution?

How do you make the revolution care?

What instrument would you choose as your weapon?

What color is your instrument of choice?

Does a voice amplify your instrument’s power?

How closely are you listening to survive?

How often do you listen to those who haven’t survived to keep you keeping on?

Is “keeping on” a protest?

How many protest sounds will it take to make a revolution?

Are you asking the hard questions of your community?

How Do You Listen To Survive?

How closely do you listen to sirens?

How well do you know the footsteps beyond your bedroom door?

There are many kinds of listening, that is beneath feet

the listening that is under this beneath. The listening that happens when your neighbor opens the apartment door to leave, and the listening when they close the door at the bottom of the stairs.

The listening of drips through gutter, tick of clock, carbonation to hiss from bottle (or not).

The listening when wind picks up or stops. The listening between waves huge intake breath, (a vacuum of silence) then roaring smash. The listening of bee wings, snorts from pup nose.

The listening when you wake and your lover is away from the bed, where are they? What are they doing awake without you? Listen for the kettle to bubble, or toilet to flush. Listen to the soft sound of door slowly closing as they leave.

I listen to the shouts through the streets, I listen to the birds bleat through wildlife refuges, I listen to the local news and listen to the chatter at the bar, and I listen when my favorite barista says his landlord is a Boulder rich-kid dick.

How closely do you listen? There are many kinds of listening, but they are all for survival.

Once, to survive writing a term paper, I listened to Andrew Bird’s tenuousness on repeat. Survival is partially through music.

Do you ever listen to those who haven’t survived to keep you keeping on?

Like Jeff Beck’s “Hallelujah” or Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black”?

When Alex died at 25, I listened to Silverstein. It was one of many bands we saw perform at the shithole-in-the-wall pool hall venue on the outskirts of Jacksonville.

When I was informed Eric died at 28, I was listening to Modest Mouse’s latest album, Strangers to Ourselves, and I kept it on repeat. Sometimes I kept just “The Tortoise and the Tourist" playing over and over, hearing again and again: Wake up, get ready/ Such a wonderful trip's ahead/ We get dressed as ghosts/With sheets taken from the bed/Inside our socks we hide travelers' checks/ We are tourists of the dead…Kristin Prevallet wrote once don't read something that already makes you feel dead, and this I would also say for music to survive. It can be cathartic to sit in your Modest Mouse space for a while, but don't get stuck there.

And if survival is carrying on through a time pressuring you to stop, then carry on through listening to chatter of friends, listen to the wind through meadow, listen to the creek.

To carry on, I listen to Bob Dylan, I listen to Prince and The Army of Love, to carry on listen to Queen, listen to Lakeside, listen to David Bowie.

Listen to voices with passion who demand “let’s dance!”

                                                   Avocados in Mexico           

Don’t move to Mexico.

Don’t move to Michoacán, don’t move to Jalisco

although there are mountains

and ocean sides

and coconut ice cream                       

fresca!

and mangos on sticks…                                       

muy fresca!

and skeleton statues in windowsills smiling
wearing hats full of orange and lime and magenta flowers

hugging each other

in harmony,

Oh, harmony!                                                                           Oh, harmony!—

And the avocados.

Don’t get me started on the avocado

trees lining the hills,
lush like blooming hand-fans arms gently palm back and forth

the large lime-like gems hanging in the salted air..

America, when will you be angelic?

And, you know, almost thirty-five percent of the world’s avocados
come from Michoacán.

So much creamy guacamole.                                                      So many creamy 

dreams…

Yes, the desire to be an avocado,                  warm and free-hanging, in Mexico
might be rather high right now,

wanting so desperately to be
on the sunny side of the wall…

College English Professor, Jim Wilson on President T***p: “I want to write you all a note of hope, but, all I can think of is run, hide. How does one plan a Brexit anyway?”

Don’t plan a Brexit.                                                                  Don’t run or hide.

We weren’t born in the land of the free to run away

although there’s a line somewhere
about picking yourself up by the bootstraps…

is that about running away?                                                      

Yes, it is ok to be sad
and feel like running away,                                     disappointed, torn, heartbroken.

Avocados calling us, wanting us

 to get away from a country so convoluted with

                                                                                                                             

poverty

picking avocados                                                                                                             egocentricism
peeling avocados                                                                                                                       racism
making avocado ice cream                                                                                                                            militarism
avocado gazpacho                                                                                                                     fascism

America, when will you be angelic?

No, wait, don’t leave.  

We are tired of rotting flesh of this land, torn open.

Re-torn open. Full of holes and fires
and toxicity flowing under this thin skin.

What were the United States’ foundations built upon?

Black loam splattered over golden grounds,
creeping quick like ivy

Long-covered and thrown away,
the United States we never were—

No, wait, you can move

Make a movement

We can come together   

together to rise                                                                           together to rise

from the graves of this decayed country,

America, when will you be angelic?

A movement:

Power to un-define that which
has been defined for this country

erased. No longer needing to be
a country of singularity.  

Don’t be afraid.                                                                       We are not nothing.               

We are done.                                                                                      We are we.

Revolutions never happen at elections, anyway,

it is the in between where society
can fight against
(or with!)                                                                                                               Establishments

so now it is time,
use Merino wool and lace

thread together                                                                                  tie together

sew together                                                                                      bind together

Yes, communal hands to braid
virtuosity, kindness, selflessness

Let us be like the avocado tree,

spreading our roots wide and far,

who, in a container can only grow about seven feet,

but if given roots outside

can grow tall, to thirty.