no one has seen the
octopus
in some time and
the garden is unkempt
peering through the murky
brewing underworld
of mud and poison and oil
we see the old bone yard
skeletal remains of old feasts
and bloated half-eaten fish
that nothing will touch
it looks like there may
have been a struggle
next to me
in the café a man
pours
his coffee onto his saucer he
slurps from it like a horse
greedily but slow
deliberate he
pulls a half-eaten bagel
from his tattered
yet magical paper bag
smears a psychedelic sort
of soft serve butter
with a flourish
across the top
and suddenly he
clucks
like a chicken/there it is
like a chicken
consumed
by the task at hand
Locked in the
poetry room II
Locked in the poetry
room
The poet dips flavored pencils in tea
And sits
they drip
he sips,
With a flick of his wrist
He insists
Words pour form his lips,
He wiped them on paper
And blows twice.
He reads Cinnamon
Apple Spice.
gwendolyn
it was her
its true
it was she
who convinced me
to write all those poems
about my african experience
the snapshots of love
and life
and death
and terror
and i can still feel
her samson hands
gripping my wrists the
horror of it splashed
across her face
good god...why
haven’t you written about it?
No Reply
for Ron Corn
Pity is a four
letter work
I’ll not use with you,
For truthfully, you curse yourself.
Understanding (I think)
Is a better word.
But I don’t understand, you say
How could I?
And rightly so (I suppose)
Because I am younger even
Than your marriage was.
But truthfully, I think I do.
I understand
The sweet depths of lonesome blues
and bitter drink,
how bottles think quicker than you
and sing repeatedly
the only song you want to hear,
a sharp tongued requiem
discreet in its first moments
but then slyly
severing important tied,
friendships,
unwanted questions
and prying eyes.
Half of my life
Succumbed to this very tune.
And it’s true,
Alcohol is clever
But it lies,
It tells you fantastic stories
About the seasons of life.
About love,
But when you question
The reasons for death,
Why you were left alone,
Truthfully
It never replies.
Peter Pan
So this was me not
long ago
I wouldn’t let go dare me do
Or die by the seat of my pants
Stoned down right invincible
Daring to drink my own father
Under the table jump out of
Airplanes & shave mountains
Somersaulting off of my roof
Like back when I was spitting
Out hotel windows in Rome
Whale watching from my math
Class window in Cape Town
While reading Shakespeare
Looking up girls itty bitty skirts
Under soccer match bleachers
Crashing wedding receptions
Or running through the sewers
Of Pretoria with some brothers
And a candle lit at both ends
Torturing scorpions on the
Lonely hill behind my house
Leaping over Puff Adders a
Trapeze act through the trees
Dodging green Boom Slange
Flying high as a kite as light
As a feather never believing
I would ever be accountable
Skinny dipping in my own
Hotel swimming pool with
Traci and friends or dragged
Out of the Atlantic and cuffed
Naked one night in Florida
And I’m here to tell you my
Flight was the mother of joy-
Rides a life never grounded
Soaring like a bat out of hell
I was as electric as Benjamin
F. Franklin in his ‘jammies a
Wild streak peaking through
Sparks flying at every turn
Burning my ever loving ass
Back into the atmosphere
Winging It
Slinging ink
Doesn’t give voice to the thing.
In the Kiaat
Tree
Vervet monkeys wail
and cackle
As they fling their small furry bodies
Back and forth in the graceful tree, Black hands clinging to
rough gray bark,
Black faces laughing, eyes wide and giddy
From the perfumed pea-like yellow flowers.
But they don’t notice the patient python
Blending in with the dark gray branches
A thin beam of elastic shadow reaching,
Gingerly creeping from limb to limb,
Stretching for the favored little prey
With the tasty bright blue neon balls.
inside the
barrel
i could scream
i could shout
i could kick
i could
