Leaving the Roadside Motel
Trains in Winter
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Trains in Winter
Trains in Winter
By Jay Meek
By Jay Meek
Over first coffee, I ride the diner and look out at snow fallen deep in gorges. At winter stations, a locomotive can freeze to the rails, and a mountain night turn so cold it makes the rails snap. Some trains in heavy snow overtake a moose herd along a roadbed, then sweep a few cows into a ravine, or maybe a bull crossing a trestle will go on through, catching his legs between the ties. I've seen icebergs melting in a Newfoundland cove, their fresh water icing to a clear glaze. I've heard of sister ships passing at sea, on their last crossing, while on deck a few passengers wave. Tapestries in smoking rooms, shipboard mysteries. There is so much tonnage to our lives, as if civility required an enormous effort, if only for a little sweetness, a little wine.
Hope's the pure country I was born to, where trains run on schedule in their periodic and beneficent sadness. I want to forget the casual insults that often pass for humor, and imagine the letters lovers might write, or the letters friends send every winter as their sentences cross the distance of the page. Their words are like a train arriving in Los Angeles while another train approaches the desert, and still another leaves the Chicago yards. Tonight I want to lie in my bed and listen to trains moving across America toward a place still humanly possible, desirable if difficult, a day's journey away.
Leaving the Roadside Motel
Leaving the Roadside Motel
By Jay Meek
A ventriloquist sat in his car and tried to start it, but it wouldn t turn over. He was in a dreadful fix to be going, and I asked if he needed a jump, but he didn t answer. He just looked straight ahead and ground on the starter. The others talked among themselves, back and forth over the seat, and as they posed their bodies a certain way, or held their heads at a familiar angle, I could tell these were famous people, most of whom were now dead.
The three in back were actors, and the woman beside him an actress who in real life had been beheaded in a car crash. They were each dressed according to the role that had made them famous on the screen. But as they continued to talk lightly about what I couldn t hear with the windows rolled down, I could see these were not the famous ones, but models who in some way resembled the famous. This was how near they had come, and how far they had missed by. As the driver turned the key, sometimes the battery sparked, and everyone lurched forward. When they did, an eyelash dropped from one of the women, or a monocle shattered, and one man in the back seat wept over the aristocratic nose that had come off in his hand.
I used to wonder what the ventriloquist s doll did at night, alone in its box, but I see now that it must have done no more than cherish the silence, a few hours without manipulation. And the ventriloquist, what does he feel, at a loss for words? Everyone is endangered.
By Jay Meek
A ventriloquist sat in his car and tried to start it, but it wouldn t turn over. He was in a dreadful fix to be going, and I asked if he needed a jump, but he didn t answer. He just looked straight ahead and ground on the starter. The others talked among themselves, back and forth over the seat, and as they posed their bodies a certain way, or held their heads at a familiar angle, I could tell these were famous people, most of whom were now dead.
The three in back were actors, and the woman beside him an actress who in real life had been beheaded in a car crash. They were each dressed according to the role that had made them famous on the screen. But as they continued to talk lightly about what I couldn t hear with the windows rolled down, I could see these were not the famous ones, but models who in some way resembled the famous. This was how near they had come, and how far they had missed by. As the driver turned the key, sometimes the battery sparked, and everyone lurched forward. When they did, an eyelash dropped from one of the women, or a monocle shattered, and one man in the back seat wept over the aristocratic nose that had come off in his hand.
I used to wonder what the ventriloquist s doll did at night, alone in its box, but I see now that it must have done no more than cherish the silence, a few hours without manipulation. And the ventriloquist, what does he feel, at a loss for words? Everyone is endangered.
Song For The Last Act
Song For The Last Act
By Louise Bogan
Now that I have your face by heart, I look
Less at its features than its darkening frame
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook.
Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.
Now that I have your face by heart, I look.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read
In the black chords upon a dulling page
Music that is not meant for music’s cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.
The staves are shuttled over with a stark
Unprinted silence. In a double dream
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.
The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.
Now that I have your heart by heart, I see
The wharves with their great ships and architraves;
The rigging and the cargo and the slaves
On a strange beach under a broken sky.
O not departure, but a voyage done!
The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps
Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps
Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.
Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.
By Louise Bogan
Now that I have your face by heart, I look
Less at its features than its darkening frame
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook.
Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.
Now that I have your face by heart, I look.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read
In the black chords upon a dulling page
Music that is not meant for music’s cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.
The staves are shuttled over with a stark
Unprinted silence. In a double dream
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.
The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.
Now that I have your heart by heart, I see
The wharves with their great ships and architraves;
The rigging and the cargo and the slaves
On a strange beach under a broken sky.
O not departure, but a voyage done!
The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps
Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps
Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.
Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.
All Oppression is Connected
All Oppression is Connected
By Staceyann Chin
By Staceyann Chin
Being queer has no bearing on race, my white publicist said
true love is never affected by color
true love is never affected by color
I curb the flashes of me crashing across the table
to knock his blond skin
from Manhattan to Montego Bay
to bear witness to
the bloody beatings of brown boys
accused of the homosexual crime of buggery amidst the new fangled fads and fallacies
the New Age claims that
sexual and racial freedom has finally come for all
these under-informed
self-congratulating
pseudo-intellectual utterances
reflect how apolitical the left has become
to knock his blond skin
from Manhattan to Montego Bay
to bear witness to
the bloody beatings of brown boys
accused of the homosexual crime of buggery amidst the new fangled fads and fallacies
the New Age claims that
sexual and racial freedom has finally come for all
these under-informed
self-congratulating
pseudo-intellectual utterances
reflect how apolitical the left has become
It is now commonplace to hear young activists say
The terms lesbian and Black and radical
come across as confrontational
Why can’t people just be people?
The terms lesbian and Black and radical
come across as confrontational
Why can’t people just be people?
Tongue and courage tied with fear
I am at once livid
ashamed and paralyzed
by the neoconservatism
breeding malicious amongst us
I am at once livid
ashamed and paralyzed
by the neoconservatism
breeding malicious amongst us
Gay
Lesbian
Bisexual
Transgender
Ally
Questioning
Two spirit
Non-gender conforming
every year we add a new fucking letter
yet every year
I become more and more afraid to say
who I am
everyday
under the pretense of unity I swallow something I should have said
about the epidemic of AIDS in Africa
or the violence against teenage girls in East New York
or the mortality rate of young boys on the south side of Chicago
Lesbian
Bisexual
Transgender
Ally
Questioning
Two spirit
Non-gender conforming
every year we add a new fucking letter
yet every year
I become more and more afraid to say
who I am
everyday
under the pretense of unity I swallow something I should have said
about the epidemic of AIDS in Africa
or the violence against teenage girls in East New York
or the mortality rate of young boys on the south side of Chicago
even in friendly conversation
I have to reign in that bell hooks-ian urge
to kill mother-fuckers who say stupid shit to me
I have to reign in that bell hooks-ian urge
to kill mother-fuckers who say stupid shit to me
all day, all day
bitter branches of things I cannot say out loud
sprout deviant from my neck
bitter branches of things I cannot say out loud
sprout deviant from my neck
fuck you, you fucking racist-sexist-turd
fuck you for crying about homophobia
while you exploit the desperation of undocumented immigrants
to clean your hallways
bathe your children, cook your dinner
for less than you and I spend on our tax deductible lunch!
fuck you for crying about homophobia
while you exploit the desperation of undocumented immigrants
to clean your hallways
bathe your children, cook your dinner
for less than you and I spend on our tax deductible lunch!
I want to scream out loud
ALL OPPRESSION IS CONNECTED, YOU DICK
ALL OPPRESSION IS CONNECTED, YOU DICK
at the heart of every radical, political action in history
stood the dykes who were feminists
the anti-racists who were gay rights activists
the men who believed being vulnerable
could only make the entire community stronger
stood the dykes who were feminists
the anti-racists who were gay rights activists
the men who believed being vulnerable
could only make the entire community stronger
as the violence against us increases
where are the LGBT centers in those neighborhoods
where the assaults occur most frequently?
as the tide of the Supreme Court changes
where are the marches
to support a woman’s right to an abortion?
where are the LGBT centers in those neighborhoods
where the assaults occur most frequently?
as the tide of the Supreme Court changes
where are the marches
to support a woman’s right to an abortion?
HIV/AIDS was once a reason for gay white men to ACT UP
now their indifference spells the death
of straight Black women
and imprisoned Latino boys
apparently
if the tragedy does not immediately impact them
they don’t give a fuck
now their indifference spells the death
of straight Black women
and imprisoned Latino boys
apparently
if the tragedy does not immediately impact them
they don’t give a fuck
a revolution once pregnant with expectation flounders
apathetic and individualistic,
no one knows where to vote
or what to vote for anymore
apathetic and individualistic,
no one knows where to vote
or what to vote for anymore
the faces that represent us
have begun to look like the ones who used to burn crosses
and beat bulldaggers and fuck faggots up the ass
with loaded guns
have begun to look like the ones who used to burn crosses
and beat bulldaggers and fuck faggots up the ass
with loaded guns
the companies that sponsor our events
do not honor the way we live or love
or dance or pray
do not honor the way we live or love
or dance or pray
progressive politicians
progressive politicians
still dance around the issue of gay parenting
and the term marriage is reserved
for those unions sanctioned by a church-controlled state
progressive politicians
still dance around the issue of gay parenting
and the term marriage is reserved
for those unions sanctioned by a church-controlled state
for all the landmarks we celebrate
we’re still niggers
and faggots
and minstrel references
for jokes created on the funny pages of a
white, heteronormative world
we’re still niggers
and faggots
and minstrel references
for jokes created on the funny pages of a
white, heteronormative world
the current leftist manifesto is a corporate agenda
and outside that agenda
a young boy dressed in drag is swallowing someone else’s semen
so he can pay for dinner
a woman is beaten every 12 seconds
every two minutes
a girl is raped somewhere in America
a young boy dressed in drag is swallowing someone else’s semen
so he can pay for dinner
a woman is beaten every 12 seconds
every two minutes
a girl is raped somewhere in America
and while we stand here well-dressed and rejoicing
in India
in China
in South America a small child cuts the old cloth
to construct the new shoe, the new shirt
the old imperialism held upright
by the misuse of impoverished lives
in India
in China
in South America a small child cuts the old cloth
to construct the new shoe, the new shirt
the old imperialism held upright
by the misuse of impoverished lives
gather round ye dykes and fags and
trannies and all those committed to
radical social change
trannies and all those committed to
radical social change
we are not simply at a political crossroad
we are buried knee deep in the quagmire
of a battle for our very humanity
we are buried knee deep in the quagmire
of a battle for our very humanity
the powers that have always been
have already come for the Jew
the communist
the trade unionist
and the terrorist
the time to act is now!
the time to act is now!
the time to act is now!
have already come for the Jew
the communist
the trade unionist
and the terrorist
the time to act is now!
the time to act is now!
the time to act is now!
Now! while there are still ways we can fight
Now! because the rights we have are still so very few
Now! because it is the right thing to do
Now! before you open the door to find
they have finally come
for you
Now! because the rights we have are still so very few
Now! because it is the right thing to do
Now! before you open the door to find
they have finally come
for you
If Only Out of Vanity
If Only Out of vanity
By Staceyann Chin
By Staceyann Chin
If only out of vanity
I have wondered what kind of woman I will be
when I am well past the summer of my raging youth
Will I still be raising revolutionary flags
and making impassioned speeches
that stir up anger in the hearts of pseudo-liberals
dressed in navy-blue conservative wear
In those years when I am grateful
I still have a good sturdy bladder
that does not leak undigested prune juice
onto diapers—no longer adorable
will I be more grateful for that
than for any forward movement in any current political cause
and will it have been worth it then
Will it have been worth the long hours
of not sleeping
that produced little more than reams
of badly written verses that catapulted me into literary spasms
but did not even whet the appetite
of the three O’ clock crowd
in the least respected of the New York poetry cafes
Will I wish then that I had taken that job working at the bank
or the one to watch that old lady drool
all over her soft boiled eggs
as she tells me how she was a raving beauty in the sixties
how she could have had any man she wanted
but she chose the one least likely to succeed
and that’s why when the son of a bitch died
she had to move into this place
because it was government subsidized
Will I tell my young attendant
how slender I was then
and paint for her pictures
of the young me more beautiful than I ever was
if only to make her forget the shriveled paper skin
the stained but even dental plates
and the faint smell of urine that tends to linger
in places built especially for revolutionaries
whose causes have been won
or forgotten
Will I still be lesbian then
or will the church or family finally convince me
to marry some man with a smaller dick
than the one my woman uses to afford me
violent and multiple orgasms
Will the staff smile at me
humor my eccentricities to my face
but laugh at me in their private resting rooms
saying she must have been something in her day
Most days I don’t know what I will be like then
but everyday—I know what I want to be now
I want to be that voice that makes Guilani
so scared he hires two (butch) black bodyguards
I want to write the poem
that The New York Times cannot print
because it might start some kind of black or lesbian
or even a white revolution
I want to go to secret meetings and under the guise
of female friendship I want to bed the women
of those young and eager revolutionaries
with too much zeal for their cause
and too little passion for the women
who follow them from city to city
all the while waiting in separate rooms
I want to be forty years old
and weigh three hundred pounds
and ride a motorcycle in the wintertime
with four hell raising children
and a one hundred ten pound female lover
who writes poetry about my life
and my children and loves me
like no one has ever loved me before
I want to be the girl your parents will use
as a bad example of a lady
I want to be the dyke who likes to fuck men
I want to be the politician who never lies
I want to be the girl who never cries
I want to go down in history
in a chapter marked miscellaneous
because the writers could find
no other way to categorize me
In this world where classification is key
I want to erase the straight lines
So I can be me
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Feminist or a Womanist
Feminist or a Womanist
By Staceyann Chin
Am I a feminist or a womanist? The student needs to know if I do men occasionally and primarily, am I a lesbian? Tongue tied up in my cheek, I attempt to respond with some honesty. Well, this business of Dykes and Dykery, I tell her, it's often messy. With social tensions as they are, you never quite know what you're getting.
Girls who are only straight at night, hardcore butches be sporting dresses between 9 & 6 every day. Sometimes she is a he, trapped by the limitations of our imaginations. Primarily, I tell her, I am concerned about young women who are raped on college campuses, in bars, after poetry readings like this one, in bars. Bruised lip and broken heart, you will forgive her if she does not come forward with the truth immediately, for when she does, it is she who will stand trial as damaged goods. Everyone will say she asked for it, dressed as she was, she must have wanted it. The words will knock about in her head: " Harlot, slut, tease, loose woman" - some people can not handle a woman on the loose. You know those women in pinstriped shirts and silk ties, You know those women in blood-red stiletto heels and short skirts. These women make New York City the most interesting place. And while we're on the subject of diversity, Asia is not one big race, and there's not one big country called 'The Islands', and no, I am not from there.
There are a hundred ways to slip between the cracks of our not so credible cultural assumptions about race and religion. Most people are suprised that my father is Chinese. Like there's some kind of preconditioned look for the half-Chinese, lesbian poet who used to be Catholic, but now believes in dreams.
Let's get real sister-boy in the double-x hooded sweatshirt. That blonde-haired, blue-eyed Jesus in the Vatican ain't right. That motherfucker was Jewish, not white. Christ was a middle-eastern rasta man who ate grapes in the company of prostitutes and he drank wine more than he drank water. Born of the spirit, the disciples loved him in the flesh.
But the discourse is not on those of us who identify as gay or lesbian or even straight. The state needs us to be either a clear left or right. Those in the middle get caught in the cross - fire away at the other side. If you are not for us, then you must be against us. If you are not for us, then you must be against us. People get scared enough, they pick a team. Be it for Buddha or Krishna or Christ, I believe God is that place between belief and what you name it. I believe holy is what you do when there is nothing between your actions and the truth.
The truth is I'm afraid to draw your black lines around me, I'm not always pale in the middle, I come in too many flavors for one fucking spoon. I am never one thing or the other. At night I am everything I fear, tears and sorrows, black windows and muffled screams. In the morning, I am all I ever want to be: rain and laughter, bare footprints and invisible seams, always without breath or definition. I claim every single dawn, for yesterday is simply what I was, and tomorrow even that will be gone.
By Staceyann Chin
Am I a feminist or a womanist? The student needs to know if I do men occasionally and primarily, am I a lesbian? Tongue tied up in my cheek, I attempt to respond with some honesty. Well, this business of Dykes and Dykery, I tell her, it's often messy. With social tensions as they are, you never quite know what you're getting.
Girls who are only straight at night, hardcore butches be sporting dresses between 9 & 6 every day. Sometimes she is a he, trapped by the limitations of our imaginations. Primarily, I tell her, I am concerned about young women who are raped on college campuses, in bars, after poetry readings like this one, in bars. Bruised lip and broken heart, you will forgive her if she does not come forward with the truth immediately, for when she does, it is she who will stand trial as damaged goods. Everyone will say she asked for it, dressed as she was, she must have wanted it. The words will knock about in her head: " Harlot, slut, tease, loose woman" - some people can not handle a woman on the loose. You know those women in pinstriped shirts and silk ties, You know those women in blood-red stiletto heels and short skirts. These women make New York City the most interesting place. And while we're on the subject of diversity, Asia is not one big race, and there's not one big country called 'The Islands', and no, I am not from there.
There are a hundred ways to slip between the cracks of our not so credible cultural assumptions about race and religion. Most people are suprised that my father is Chinese. Like there's some kind of preconditioned look for the half-Chinese, lesbian poet who used to be Catholic, but now believes in dreams.
Let's get real sister-boy in the double-x hooded sweatshirt. That blonde-haired, blue-eyed Jesus in the Vatican ain't right. That motherfucker was Jewish, not white. Christ was a middle-eastern rasta man who ate grapes in the company of prostitutes and he drank wine more than he drank water. Born of the spirit, the disciples loved him in the flesh.
But the discourse is not on those of us who identify as gay or lesbian or even straight. The state needs us to be either a clear left or right. Those in the middle get caught in the cross - fire away at the other side. If you are not for us, then you must be against us. If you are not for us, then you must be against us. People get scared enough, they pick a team. Be it for Buddha or Krishna or Christ, I believe God is that place between belief and what you name it. I believe holy is what you do when there is nothing between your actions and the truth.
The truth is I'm afraid to draw your black lines around me, I'm not always pale in the middle, I come in too many flavors for one fucking spoon. I am never one thing or the other. At night I am everything I fear, tears and sorrows, black windows and muffled screams. In the morning, I am all I ever want to be: rain and laughter, bare footprints and invisible seams, always without breath or definition. I claim every single dawn, for yesterday is simply what I was, and tomorrow even that will be gone.
Monday, March 27, 2017
Warning To The Reader
Warning To The Reader
By Robert Bly
Sometimes farm granaries become especially beautiful when all the oats or wheat are gone, and wind has swept the rough floor clean. Standing inside, we see around us, coming in through the cracks between shrunken wall boards, bands or strips of sunlight. So in a poem about imprisonment, one sees a little light.
But how many birds have died trapped in these granaries. The bird, seeing freedom in the light, flutters up the walls and falls back again and again. The way out is where the rats enter and leave; but the rat's hole is low to the floor. Writers, be careful then by showing the sunlight on the walls not to promise the anxious and panicky blackbirds a way out!
I say to the reader, beware. Readers who love poems of light may sit hunched in the corner with nothing in their gizzards for four days, light failing, the eyes glazed . . .
They may end as a mound of feathers and a skull on the open boardwood floor . . .
By Robert Bly
Sometimes farm granaries become especially beautiful when all the oats or wheat are gone, and wind has swept the rough floor clean. Standing inside, we see around us, coming in through the cracks between shrunken wall boards, bands or strips of sunlight. So in a poem about imprisonment, one sees a little light.
But how many birds have died trapped in these granaries. The bird, seeing freedom in the light, flutters up the walls and falls back again and again. The way out is where the rats enter and leave; but the rat's hole is low to the floor. Writers, be careful then by showing the sunlight on the walls not to promise the anxious and panicky blackbirds a way out!
I say to the reader, beware. Readers who love poems of light may sit hunched in the corner with nothing in their gizzards for four days, light failing, the eyes glazed . . .
They may end as a mound of feathers and a skull on the open boardwood floor . . .
A Piece Of Black Coal Found Under a Tree
A Piece Of Black Coal Found Under a Tree
By Robert Bly
This is a small piece of coal, black to the core; it's a one-inch by three-quarters inch bit of coal, ignored and ignominious. The surface gleams a little, like Iago's thoughts, or a peacock's foot in the dark. It's like the tooth of a corrupt judge that gleams as he opens his mouth.
There were farm mothers like this, self-satisfied after feeding, so many kids, some of whom will pass their twenty-first birthday in jail. Shall we say the coal is like a father who can't wait to burn himself up by being a bad boy, abandoning "all he was taught"? This bit of coal gives my lips the longing to kiss it ...
The chunk of coal iies on the table at this moment two feet from my lips and from my writing hand; it is as heavy as I am and as depressed; well, it is pressed out of old vegetation, we know that ... Eventually I'll come walking along while visiting this girls' school, looking for some object to write about with them, and I'll find it.
By Robert Bly
This is a small piece of coal, black to the core; it's a one-inch by three-quarters inch bit of coal, ignored and ignominious. The surface gleams a little, like Iago's thoughts, or a peacock's foot in the dark. It's like the tooth of a corrupt judge that gleams as he opens his mouth.
There were farm mothers like this, self-satisfied after feeding, so many kids, some of whom will pass their twenty-first birthday in jail. Shall we say the coal is like a father who can't wait to burn himself up by being a bad boy, abandoning "all he was taught"? This bit of coal gives my lips the longing to kiss it ...
The chunk of coal iies on the table at this moment two feet from my lips and from my writing hand; it is as heavy as I am and as depressed; well, it is pressed out of old vegetation, we know that ... Eventually I'll come walking along while visiting this girls' school, looking for some object to write about with them, and I'll find it.
Sunday, March 26, 2017
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
By Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.
By Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.
Wading
Wading
By Viggo Mortensen
Pieces of you drift by in the dead of the afternoon
on the yellow tip of a wave.
The same shark that came to shore at the end of yesterday
rolls sickly
bumping coral like a tired drunk
to avoid being eaten at low tide.
He is not afraid of me, I am thinking of you.
So much gone from memory that I am left with just your teeth.
By Viggo Mortensen
Pieces of you drift by in the dead of the afternoon
on the yellow tip of a wave.
The same shark that came to shore at the end of yesterday
rolls sickly
bumping coral like a tired drunk
to avoid being eaten at low tide.
He is not afraid of me, I am thinking of you.
So much gone from memory that I am left with just your teeth.
Weekends
Weekends
By Veggo Mortensen
Medicated limbs, lonely and greedy. Sick for attention, dying for
company, you’re drunk for days. Overburdened moss-rotted branches
heave slowly with the weak night breeze, like a failing night, and
graze the stone wall.
The nurse in me won’t let me leave.
Homemade illness hardens into sugar and batters your speech, draping
your dry white tongue over your teeth. Red pinholes for eyes, and
your mouth is a smudge.
Do I have to watch tomorrow afternoon while you keep your face
warm with the television and the maple drips on the lawn chairs that
flake and rust on the flooded terrace?
When you start snoring, I’ll take the tray from your lap and tip you
over so I can look for the rest of your lunch under the green sofa
cushions and probably find those pills you’ve been hiding. By the time
the clouds dim and I start seeing us in the windows, I’ll be drunk
myself and ready to wake you for dinner.
By Veggo Mortensen
Medicated limbs, lonely and greedy. Sick for attention, dying for
company, you’re drunk for days. Overburdened moss-rotted branches
heave slowly with the weak night breeze, like a failing night, and
graze the stone wall.
The nurse in me won’t let me leave.
Homemade illness hardens into sugar and batters your speech, draping
your dry white tongue over your teeth. Red pinholes for eyes, and
your mouth is a smudge.
Do I have to watch tomorrow afternoon while you keep your face
warm with the television and the maple drips on the lawn chairs that
flake and rust on the flooded terrace?
When you start snoring, I’ll take the tray from your lap and tip you
over so I can look for the rest of your lunch under the green sofa
cushions and probably find those pills you’ve been hiding. By the time
the clouds dim and I start seeing us in the windows, I’ll be drunk
myself and ready to wake you for dinner.
That Night
That Night
By Max Winter
I saw something adrift.
It looked like a man to me.
It could have made my troubles disappear.
It made me ask questions I would not have asked.
It weaved through the clouds like a splinter.
Trailing nothing but the suggestions.
No words light enough to describe it.
I called you to the roof.
I showed you the shape of the new music.
You built a dome to catch the beats.
The man turned sideways to face us.
He seemed to wave, but it might have been the air.
I was not standing on Earth.
But I still believed in certain freedoms.
And my mind was no smaller.
Yet the world grew no smaller,
as much room as I gave it.
That evening, as I stood in the street,
watching a thing
trying for humanity,
flying short.
By Max Winter
I saw something adrift.
It looked like a man to me.
It could have made my troubles disappear.
It made me ask questions I would not have asked.
It weaved through the clouds like a splinter.
Trailing nothing but the suggestions.
No words light enough to describe it.
I called you to the roof.
I showed you the shape of the new music.
You built a dome to catch the beats.
The man turned sideways to face us.
He seemed to wave, but it might have been the air.
I was not standing on Earth.
But I still believed in certain freedoms.
And my mind was no smaller.
Yet the world grew no smaller,
as much room as I gave it.
That evening, as I stood in the street,
watching a thing
trying for humanity,
flying short.
What I Would Give Myself To Be
What I Would Give Myself To Be
By Max Winter
Roosevelt tells me loudly and clearly what I am doing wrong. A rat crawls across the stage. Out in the open city. The terms are absent or unnecessary. Someone is not telling me the truth. Terrible thing to lose your mind. Orchestral backup for the dropping of lead. What lead. How foolish could I have been. On the curtain is written the name of a typhoon. In quavery letters. She likes me, she doesn’t, she likes me, she doesn’t. Big Roosevelt head on a small Roosevelt body. Is this important. Do I wake. George Jones descends from the wings. Am I George Jones. George Jones is not singing but shooting. Pick a peck. A cough. Sleigh bells. It is a long way, over the tundra, dirty and indistinct dogs, where do they live the ones I love. Long hut. Ranch house. Shadows on blinds, on shades, too much snow to pick someone out. Is it snow or sleet. What’s funny. I say again. All my flies are zipped. In the house the cider. A crowd a-smother. Pipes a-knock. Two koala bears nuzzling my cuff. A kick and a kick and I cannot kick them off. I run through a thinning white. I sense that it is not mine. Which is why I cannot escape. Rumor. Levity.
By Max Winter
Roosevelt tells me loudly and clearly what I am doing wrong. A rat crawls across the stage. Out in the open city. The terms are absent or unnecessary. Someone is not telling me the truth. Terrible thing to lose your mind. Orchestral backup for the dropping of lead. What lead. How foolish could I have been. On the curtain is written the name of a typhoon. In quavery letters. She likes me, she doesn’t, she likes me, she doesn’t. Big Roosevelt head on a small Roosevelt body. Is this important. Do I wake. George Jones descends from the wings. Am I George Jones. George Jones is not singing but shooting. Pick a peck. A cough. Sleigh bells. It is a long way, over the tundra, dirty and indistinct dogs, where do they live the ones I love. Long hut. Ranch house. Shadows on blinds, on shades, too much snow to pick someone out. Is it snow or sleet. What’s funny. I say again. All my flies are zipped. In the house the cider. A crowd a-smother. Pipes a-knock. Two koala bears nuzzling my cuff. A kick and a kick and I cannot kick them off. I run through a thinning white. I sense that it is not mine. Which is why I cannot escape. Rumor. Levity.
As If I Knew
As If I knew
By Max Winter
It was a good year, he says at the top of the new hotel, in the room always lit, in the room in which a television always plays ‘The Dahlia,’ in which a flower is the voice of a death, what voice it can muster in the crackly noplace;
it was a good year, he says, lying on his bed, hands outstretched, in one hand the model of a small city — where we may find an apothecary ever to grind in a pestle, an architect to build Valhalla, an optometrist to let us Through — and in the other the wrapper from a box of cigars given to a box of friends;
it was a good year, if you take out the bad, he says, as the snow picks up, as predicted from blue fields on the edges of weather; and the guest can see less, but he looks less as one meeting begets another meeting, as more water is drunk, as a series of figures keeps him from his train;
in which the living room is empty till the murderer enters, the sound is running behind, mouths move, the ending will not satisfy;
if you take out the bad, you are left with the following figures, he says;
where we pray beneath the bells, where we play some old records when the houses are empty;
if you take out the bad, having loosened his tie, having dropped his shoes, having picked up the phone;
it was a good year, he says from the top of the new hotel, to his absent, to the Wood of Suicides, to the Bellhop;
in which a flower is a piece of candy, in which a face is a piece of contrast; the film may stop as an object may stop, mid-sentence;
if you take out the bad parts, sure it was fine, maybe with changes; the glass he has held will fall on the ground;
in which brambles grow at the scene of the crime, in which everyone knows, all the time;
goodness gracious, the killer done struck again
By Max Winter
It was a good year, he says at the top of the new hotel, in the room always lit, in the room in which a television always plays ‘The Dahlia,’ in which a flower is the voice of a death, what voice it can muster in the crackly noplace;
it was a good year, he says, lying on his bed, hands outstretched, in one hand the model of a small city — where we may find an apothecary ever to grind in a pestle, an architect to build Valhalla, an optometrist to let us Through — and in the other the wrapper from a box of cigars given to a box of friends;
it was a good year, if you take out the bad, he says, as the snow picks up, as predicted from blue fields on the edges of weather; and the guest can see less, but he looks less as one meeting begets another meeting, as more water is drunk, as a series of figures keeps him from his train;
in which the living room is empty till the murderer enters, the sound is running behind, mouths move, the ending will not satisfy;
if you take out the bad, you are left with the following figures, he says;
where we pray beneath the bells, where we play some old records when the houses are empty;
if you take out the bad, having loosened his tie, having dropped his shoes, having picked up the phone;
it was a good year, he says from the top of the new hotel, to his absent, to the Wood of Suicides, to the Bellhop;
in which a flower is a piece of candy, in which a face is a piece of contrast; the film may stop as an object may stop, mid-sentence;
if you take out the bad parts, sure it was fine, maybe with changes; the glass he has held will fall on the ground;
in which brambles grow at the scene of the crime, in which everyone knows, all the time;
goodness gracious, the killer done struck again
My Blue Heaven
My Blue Heaven
By Max Winter
I should help myself. My spirits are still asleep. My eggs have been cooked. Not in sunlight but in steam. When you remember me, be sure to note my high, intelligent forehead. My thoughts run from east to west. From cheek to cheek. I have begun to think visibility would be a good idea. This from someone whose contentment is exceeded only by the size and dark shade of his blinders. Let me have another piece of toast. Let me have a napkin. My habits at this hour run to sloppiness. Four out of five psychologists, scratching themselves through ratty underwear, testy at being awakened for a merely human question, report that sleep deprivation leads to unhappiness. But is it not true, doctors, that unhappiness and weariness are one and identical: weariness of trains, weariness of hardwood, weariness of October, weariness of gusts, weariness of baked apples, weariness of one's own sexual organs, weariness of Avenue A, weariness of bed, weariness of speaking to some ever-distant person? But I am not an unhappy man. I simply slept little and woke early. The reason was not you or I or it or them or we or me or his or theirs. Alice kept me awake, floating above me, a chiding ray in my autumnal forest. I chanted, "We live to love and love to live and love to live and live to love," but I could not achieve the stasis I needed. I needed. But that's bubbly in the topsoil. Let it fizz. Let me have another cup of coffee, now that you've peed. Your full thighs and urban smirk are almost enviable. Almost. I do not depart my heliport so easily these days. You see, I have other concerns. I am covered with hopping and unkillable green bugs. Or I must be. Not to complain. No one likes a complainer. But I've begun talking to the stars. They don't move around so much. They're optimists. And they've performed steadily for many years. Venus is my favorite. Venus, like night, is always available. And all of you who know me, all of you who think you know me, I'm never coming around here, never again, no more. Brando? And there goes the tram to Roosevelt Isle. When I was invisible, I thought spotting the train meant good luck. But at this point it means the ambassadors are going, home. The ambassadors have left. The ambassadors are no more. Alice brought me here and told me she didn't know me. That I felt nothing for her. I told her she wasn't watching, I felt things for her at every crosswalk, for every thinkable and unthinkable reason. And then her tongue in my ear. Where is that tongue? But more importantly, where is that ear? I must find that ear. I guess I should settle it up. Less of a tip than a transom through which my Generosity thoks on the counter like a letter that says "This will have to be the end of it all," and if you wake up crying in a cold water bath, who ever finds out? Ninety cents ought to do it. Okay, a dollar. And I leave you, Greeks, picking eggs from my molar. And I walk out. Oh, it's still dark. I turn to the right, and a little white light will lead me to my, blue, heaven.
By Max Winter
I should help myself. My spirits are still asleep. My eggs have been cooked. Not in sunlight but in steam. When you remember me, be sure to note my high, intelligent forehead. My thoughts run from east to west. From cheek to cheek. I have begun to think visibility would be a good idea. This from someone whose contentment is exceeded only by the size and dark shade of his blinders. Let me have another piece of toast. Let me have a napkin. My habits at this hour run to sloppiness. Four out of five psychologists, scratching themselves through ratty underwear, testy at being awakened for a merely human question, report that sleep deprivation leads to unhappiness. But is it not true, doctors, that unhappiness and weariness are one and identical: weariness of trains, weariness of hardwood, weariness of October, weariness of gusts, weariness of baked apples, weariness of one's own sexual organs, weariness of Avenue A, weariness of bed, weariness of speaking to some ever-distant person? But I am not an unhappy man. I simply slept little and woke early. The reason was not you or I or it or them or we or me or his or theirs. Alice kept me awake, floating above me, a chiding ray in my autumnal forest. I chanted, "We live to love and love to live and love to live and live to love," but I could not achieve the stasis I needed. I needed. But that's bubbly in the topsoil. Let it fizz. Let me have another cup of coffee, now that you've peed. Your full thighs and urban smirk are almost enviable. Almost. I do not depart my heliport so easily these days. You see, I have other concerns. I am covered with hopping and unkillable green bugs. Or I must be. Not to complain. No one likes a complainer. But I've begun talking to the stars. They don't move around so much. They're optimists. And they've performed steadily for many years. Venus is my favorite. Venus, like night, is always available. And all of you who know me, all of you who think you know me, I'm never coming around here, never again, no more. Brando? And there goes the tram to Roosevelt Isle. When I was invisible, I thought spotting the train meant good luck. But at this point it means the ambassadors are going, home. The ambassadors have left. The ambassadors are no more. Alice brought me here and told me she didn't know me. That I felt nothing for her. I told her she wasn't watching, I felt things for her at every crosswalk, for every thinkable and unthinkable reason. And then her tongue in my ear. Where is that tongue? But more importantly, where is that ear? I must find that ear. I guess I should settle it up. Less of a tip than a transom through which my Generosity thoks on the counter like a letter that says "This will have to be the end of it all," and if you wake up crying in a cold water bath, who ever finds out? Ninety cents ought to do it. Okay, a dollar. And I leave you, Greeks, picking eggs from my molar. And I walk out. Oh, it's still dark. I turn to the right, and a little white light will lead me to my, blue, heaven.
Bread and Music
Bread and Music
By Conrad Aiken
Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.
Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, belovèd,
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.
For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,—
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.
By Conrad Aiken
Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.
Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, belovèd,
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.
For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,—
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.
Who, What, Where, When, and Why
Who, What, Where, When, and Why
By Mary Lambert
Who gave you the right
To do this to me? To break my naive heart?
Who ever said
"It is better to haved loved and lost to have never loved at all."
I must say is not very smart.What exactly
Am I holding on to? Am I so afraid to let go of?
What will heal
This broken heart?
You pushed me away with a shove. Where do I go
When there is no place for me? When there is no me without you?
Where can I run
Since you left me here?
There is no place to run to. When did you come
To the conclusion this would not work? To the fact that this must end?
When are you going to notice
I can not go on like this?
I have a heart I can not mend. Why does it hurt so much
To know I can not have you? To know you do not care?
Why can I not realize
I need to get over you?
This pain is nothing I can bear.
By Mary Lambert
Who gave you the right
To do this to me? To break my naive heart?
Who ever said
"It is better to haved loved and lost to have never loved at all."
I must say is not very smart.
Am I holding on to? Am I so afraid to let go of?
What will heal
This broken heart?
You pushed me away with a shove.
When there is no place for me? When there is no me without you?
Where can I run
Since you left me here?
There is no place to run to.
To the conclusion this would not work? To the fact that this must end?
When are you going to notice
I can not go on like this?
I have a heart I can not mend.
To know I can not have you? To know you do not care?
Why can I not realize
I need to get over you?
This pain is nothing I can bear.
Epidemic
Epidemic
By Mary Lambert
The girl with purple hair is sitting at my bar again.
I think she is beautiful. And not in a way that I wanna have awesome sex with her but in a way that I want to drink chocolate martinis with her
and go shopping for christmas vests that have tinkly bells and possibly polar bears with hats on them.
She is having a full-body cry. I am the worst bartender, simply
because I don't know how to counsel people without crying back at them.
She is crying about the state of women.
I know that we come from the same rotting wood, so all I do is nod.
"How is it that three quarters of the women I know have been raped or molested?
What does that say about the men that I know?
Rape is not a man behind a bush with a knife, she laughs
It's kissing you on the mouth like whiskey at a nice bar."
The girl with purple hair and I are holding hands now,
"I only wanted an apology,
an acknowledgement of what occurred."
Grappling as artists, as girls, as ships in bottles,
how do we change any of it?
I tell her I am going to write a poem.
She says no one wants to hear a rape poem.
And I know she's right.
Have you ever seen a stampede of horses?
Do you wonder what the hooves look like from underneath?
Have you ever tasted the blood from biting your own lips because you couldn't say no enough?
"I never fought back. I kept my thighs tight and
closed, but once he's inside you, you wish you were the streetlamp, the
store clerk, a street lamp, a bed of calla lilies-
anything but a woman.
In that moment, our eyes glaze over, and they stay that way for years.
That's when you've lost.
By Mary Lambert
The girl with purple hair is sitting at my bar again.
I think she is beautiful. And not in a way that I wanna have awesome sex with her but in a way that I want to drink chocolate martinis with her
and go shopping for christmas vests that have tinkly bells and possibly polar bears with hats on them.
She is having a full-body cry. I am the worst bartender, simply
because I don't know how to counsel people without crying back at them.
She is crying about the state of women.
I know that we come from the same rotting wood, so all I do is nod.
"How is it that three quarters of the women I know have been raped or molested?
What does that say about the men that I know?
Rape is not a man behind a bush with a knife, she laughs
It's kissing you on the mouth like whiskey at a nice bar."
The girl with purple hair and I are holding hands now,
"I only wanted an apology,
an acknowledgement of what occurred."
Grappling as artists, as girls, as ships in bottles,
how do we change any of it?
I tell her I am going to write a poem.
She says no one wants to hear a rape poem.
And I know she's right.
Have you ever seen a stampede of horses?
Do you wonder what the hooves look like from underneath?
Have you ever tasted the blood from biting your own lips because you couldn't say no enough?
"I never fought back. I kept my thighs tight and
closed, but once he's inside you, you wish you were the streetlamp, the
store clerk, a street lamp, a bed of calla lilies-
anything but a woman.
In that moment, our eyes glaze over, and they stay that way for years.
That's when you've lost.
Friday, March 24, 2017
Kitchen Ghost
Kitchen Ghost
By Fred Muratori
After midnight, the wide aluminum pot sidles from its cabinet, fills itself with water, hovers, then sets down on the stove. From my bedroom upstairs I can hear the click-click-click of the burner just before it ignites. A bottle of California chardonnay rises from the wine rack, uncorks itself and bends neck-first to a waiting glass. Scent of onions clearing in butter and olive oil, of garlic, winds through the house. She is hungry again, and craving a simple pasta dish. The water boils, and above it I almost hear her sighing — this fine dinner in the making and no one else to share it. Every night a different dish: sautéed shrimp with wild rice, braised boneless chicken breast, leg of lamb, her favorite. Night after night she tries to lure me from my dreams with her culinary artistry, and sometimes I almost give in. But if I roused myself, carefully felt my passage through the dark rooms and doorways, avoided knocking shins against the furniture's immobile knees and elbows, navigated the narrow stairs without skittering down, backbone on wood, what would I find? An empty table in a silent, nearly odorless kitchen, tile floor pressing its chill upward to my feet, a pile of crusted foil trays in the sink.
By Fred Muratori
After midnight, the wide aluminum pot sidles from its cabinet, fills itself with water, hovers, then sets down on the stove. From my bedroom upstairs I can hear the click-click-click of the burner just before it ignites. A bottle of California chardonnay rises from the wine rack, uncorks itself and bends neck-first to a waiting glass. Scent of onions clearing in butter and olive oil, of garlic, winds through the house. She is hungry again, and craving a simple pasta dish. The water boils, and above it I almost hear her sighing — this fine dinner in the making and no one else to share it. Every night a different dish: sautéed shrimp with wild rice, braised boneless chicken breast, leg of lamb, her favorite. Night after night she tries to lure me from my dreams with her culinary artistry, and sometimes I almost give in. But if I roused myself, carefully felt my passage through the dark rooms and doorways, avoided knocking shins against the furniture's immobile knees and elbows, navigated the narrow stairs without skittering down, backbone on wood, what would I find? An empty table in a silent, nearly odorless kitchen, tile floor pressing its chill upward to my feet, a pile of crusted foil trays in the sink.
Harbor Ghost
Harbor Ghost
By Fred Muratori
Brightest daylight. Almost two p.m., and sunlight ricochets off the harbor on its way back to outer space. The sky is as blue as any blue thing to which a poet could compare it. I can only compare it to a picture of the sky taken on a day very much like this one. Other tourists pass behind me, snapping photos that will capture not the true image but at best the moment's pale passing. A man in a bright green bicycle helmet and matching spandex shorts holds an ice cream cone in one hand and a cell phone in the other. A prosperous-looking couple with squeaking blonde toddlers cavort around the historic lighthouse that sits between the tide and grassy dunes. They've paid a small fortune to stay here for half the summer, and in fifteen or twenty years neither child will even remember the place. Here by the unshadowed harbor, all of us are safe from ghosts. Small boats that pass are white and neat, named like cherished pets, no hulking high-masted derelicts arising from a fog they carry like a curdled aura. I sigh with false comfort, then foolishly let my eyes wander to the rambling, gray-shingled inn, blurring them at each window, at each delicate, half-hidden face that looks down at me as if asking how I can stand in the New England sun, grasping at others' happiness, when so much I might learn to love waits in darkness.
By Fred Muratori
Brightest daylight. Almost two p.m., and sunlight ricochets off the harbor on its way back to outer space. The sky is as blue as any blue thing to which a poet could compare it. I can only compare it to a picture of the sky taken on a day very much like this one. Other tourists pass behind me, snapping photos that will capture not the true image but at best the moment's pale passing. A man in a bright green bicycle helmet and matching spandex shorts holds an ice cream cone in one hand and a cell phone in the other. A prosperous-looking couple with squeaking blonde toddlers cavort around the historic lighthouse that sits between the tide and grassy dunes. They've paid a small fortune to stay here for half the summer, and in fifteen or twenty years neither child will even remember the place. Here by the unshadowed harbor, all of us are safe from ghosts. Small boats that pass are white and neat, named like cherished pets, no hulking high-masted derelicts arising from a fog they carry like a curdled aura. I sigh with false comfort, then foolishly let my eyes wander to the rambling, gray-shingled inn, blurring them at each window, at each delicate, half-hidden face that looks down at me as if asking how I can stand in the New England sun, grasping at others' happiness, when so much I might learn to love waits in darkness.
From Noir
From Noir
By Fred Muratori
The blonde took her teeth out of my hand and spit my own blood at me. In isolation, an almost incomprehensible sentence, courtesy of Chandler, but a story in itself. And what about the eerie grace of The woman stood up noiselessly behind him and drifted back, inch by inch, into the dark back corner of the room. Not perfect, almost if not certainly ruined by the repetition of back, but in life I have often witnessed such imperceptible edging, sometimes by women, often by men. Guilt is no different retreated from than withstood. That's a Philip Larkin line in its bones. He was just a sumame away from Marlowe, and would probably have been quite good at this game: nondescript, unmarried, few friends, his hand quick to the gun-drawer at the suggestion that routines he had spent a lifetime perfecting were about to be disrupted by a livid husband, or a beautifully enraged widow.
By Fred Muratori
The blonde took her teeth out of my hand and spit my own blood at me. In isolation, an almost incomprehensible sentence, courtesy of Chandler, but a story in itself. And what about the eerie grace of The woman stood up noiselessly behind him and drifted back, inch by inch, into the dark back corner of the room. Not perfect, almost if not certainly ruined by the repetition of back, but in life I have often witnessed such imperceptible edging, sometimes by women, often by men. Guilt is no different retreated from than withstood. That's a Philip Larkin line in its bones. He was just a sumame away from Marlowe, and would probably have been quite good at this game: nondescript, unmarried, few friends, his hand quick to the gun-drawer at the suggestion that routines he had spent a lifetime perfecting were about to be disrupted by a livid husband, or a beautifully enraged widow.
Requiescat
Requiescat
By Oscar Wilde
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.
Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
By Oscar Wilde
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.
Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
Thursday, March 23, 2017
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
By Brother Dash
Pledge words of devotion that spring from an emotion best described as a love that has nothing to do with her
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
I walked down a path that looked so clear
The clouds they smiled, the trees they cheered The air a hint of spice and cream
But as I walked did my eyes dream?
This place of bliss?
Men’s cheeks I kissed My tongue did speak
Prophetic verse
“A Salaam A Salaam”
The strange Men said
But I’m confused Light, Dark, Pure Bred?
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Bring this passion for THE ONE, to this one, that is your one
You’ll gain a son!
Why do you run?
No not from me
But to that place
Where white sheets breathe
Where demons play
Where chains and whips evoke cruel days
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
My path became rope wrenched tight by a grip
Of forced realization don’t make me slip
From the edge of a truth that was always my hope
Let my heart be your judge
Let my soul be your sway
Let the words of that book be my advocate today
I pray, I give, 30 days food I touched not
If this world be a castle then I’ll sleep on a cot
My love for the one is the measure of my worth
Not this matter of where he chose be my birth
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Break bread with collard greens, roti and naan
Comfortable in my identity not some Desi dapper don
I’ll clean and I’ll cook and the rent will be paid
I’ll teach her about a people that gave birth to Malcolm AND Imam Zaid
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
My hair ain’t straight it’s happy to be nappy
And it’s cool to be Dad, Abu or Como Estas Papi
My skin will not pass your paper bag test
But a drum that beats steady resides in my chest
Infused with the blood of Martyrs and Saints
From Hamza to Harriett swords that used paint
To create God’s landscape of shades and tints
Why does forty nine dot one three make your narrow eyes squint?
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Lead salat in jamaat pray 2 extra rakats
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Kiss tears of frustration from gender subjugation
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Have our arms grow weary and our eyes get teary
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
‘cause we be lovers of God not the tone of Man’s flesh
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
If the Prophet was Bilal would you reject your deen?
Deny your Rabb and still say your so fresh and so clean?
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
The color of skin? Or the heart that’s within?
Speak without spin and I’ll ask you again
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
By Brother Dash
Pledge words of devotion that spring from an emotion best described as a love that has nothing to do with her
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
I walked down a path that looked so clear
The clouds they smiled, the trees they cheered The air a hint of spice and cream
But as I walked did my eyes dream?
This place of bliss?
Men’s cheeks I kissed My tongue did speak
Prophetic verse
“A Salaam A Salaam”
The strange Men said
But I’m confused Light, Dark, Pure Bred?
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Bring this passion for THE ONE, to this one, that is your one
You’ll gain a son!
Why do you run?
No not from me
But to that place
Where white sheets breathe
Where demons play
Where chains and whips evoke cruel days
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
My path became rope wrenched tight by a grip
Of forced realization don’t make me slip
From the edge of a truth that was always my hope
Let my heart be your judge
Let my soul be your sway
Let the words of that book be my advocate today
I pray, I give, 30 days food I touched not
If this world be a castle then I’ll sleep on a cot
My love for the one is the measure of my worth
Not this matter of where he chose be my birth
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Break bread with collard greens, roti and naan
Comfortable in my identity not some Desi dapper don
I’ll clean and I’ll cook and the rent will be paid
I’ll teach her about a people that gave birth to Malcolm AND Imam Zaid
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
My hair ain’t straight it’s happy to be nappy
And it’s cool to be Dad, Abu or Como Estas Papi
My skin will not pass your paper bag test
But a drum that beats steady resides in my chest
Infused with the blood of Martyrs and Saints
From Hamza to Harriett swords that used paint
To create God’s landscape of shades and tints
Why does forty nine dot one three make your narrow eyes squint?
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Lead salat in jamaat pray 2 extra rakats
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Kiss tears of frustration from gender subjugation
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
Have our arms grow weary and our eyes get teary
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
‘cause we be lovers of God not the tone of Man’s flesh
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
If the Prophet was Bilal would you reject your deen?
Deny your Rabb and still say your so fresh and so clean?
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
The color of skin? Or the heart that’s within?
Speak without spin and I’ll ask you again
Can I Marry Your Daughter?
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