in packard skin

 

in packard skin reflected
mirrored in the sheen,
alone with only the desert
desolation filled her eyes,
taking gold braid lasso
began to be fluid
with rope,
legs damp under nylon cover
breasts swelled in warm lace,
remembering that match box town
that ignited under her touch,
dust rose,
she had claimed the sun
heat closed about skin,
a game without kisses
and dead flower grief,
heaven would know
of her crimes
the dead that where still afraid,
in a packard skin reflected
spice tainted tongue
needed moisture,
as lasso swirled in frenzy,
acrid fragrance of death
chose to pursue
waiting and smiling,
mushroom column
elevated behind her
it to
reflected in a packard skin

out of the ring

those hands punched me
knocked the wind out of me,
reflecting what is ugly
my flat face,
i wondered if anybody
had beaten them,
corroding life
with the spit of minutes
splashing on my face
no shadows
as i grunted
accepting what passes,
age no longer a pleasure
but a cruel joke
i wore the bruises
clotted flesh no longer taut,
another whiskey
salute that clock,
wood rimmed containing
the mechanism
that makes time work,
what a load of crap,
i close my eyes
and my own minutes passed
i would not be reliant on it
anymore

Birago Diop – Breaths

Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire’s voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees,
It is our forefathers breathing.

The dead are not gone forever.
They are in the paling shadows,
And in the darkening shadows.
The dead are not beneath the ground,
They are in the rustling tree,
In the murmuring wood,
In the flowing water,
In the still water,
In the lonely place, in the crowd:
The dead are not dead.

Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire’s voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees.
It is the breathing of our forefathers,
Who are not gone, not beneath the ground,
Not dead.

The dead are not gone for ever.
They are in a woman’s breast,
A child’s crying, a glowing ember.
The dead are not beneath the earth,
They are in the flickering fire,
In the weeping plant, the groaning rock,
The wooded place, the home.
The dead are not dead.

Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire’s voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees.
It is the breathing of our forefathers.

according to the extent of damage

cotton incarceration
warm passive silence
flaccid dysfunction
waiting for something
that will never happen,
the only viability
a son and daughter,
born before the
scent of burning gasoline

freeway interchange
radio an unordered state
of a music republic

traffuic chaos
with thrashing horns

when metal connects
notation raw
screacming crunch
thrown off latitude
subtle tones become blank
face connects with side window
glass can write and deface
what was naturally placed
as can a steering column

concrete scrape added
to symphony
eighteen wheels raised and flipped

soft cushion supports buttocks
with sores that ache
chair propelled by hands gnarled
by whatever connected with them
my hands
unseen yet rolled me forward
as i sketched in mind
floorplan outlay

yet the anger of memories lost
her face one of them,
she would push
and not complain,
butter toast
roast coffee granules
hear her yet so much is gone

that morning
making love
i think or was that last year
subtle flow interrupted
resistance is dead
we talk
lie in comfort
love that abstract definition
has shown it’s truth
worth more than what
i cannot see

crisis of the ordinary heart (a poem to all protests )

smoke and soot
did not touch
those iron faces of tyranny,
with their steel machines
of absolute subjugation,
out here beneath flags
toiled those of the land
the factory
the shop
the office
doctors bound by bureaucracy
cast stones and blazing petroleum,
accepting water cannon baptism,
cause and conquest paramount,
streets configured
by the ordered suburban dream
now frenzied battlegrounds
of a martyrs distinction,
resolute and proud,
those with only hope as protection
fought on

 

 

el humo y el hollín
no tocó
esas caras de hierro de la tiranía,
con sus máquinas de acero
sometimiento de la absoluta,
aquí debajo banderas
trabajado los de la tierra
la fábrica
la tienda
la oficina
médicos vinculados por la burocracia
tirar piedras y petróleo en llamas,
aceptar el bautismo cañones de agua,
causar y la conquista de suma importancia,
calles configuradas
por el sueño suburbano ordenado
campos de batalla ahora frenéticos
de una distinción mártires,
decidido y orgulloso,
los que sólo tienen la esperanza de que la protección
luchó en

 

la fumée et de la suie
ne pas toucher
ces visages de fer de la tyrannie,
avec leurs machines d’acier
assujettissement des absolue,
ici sous les drapeaux
peiné ceux de la terre
l’usine
la boutique
le bureau
médecins liés par la bureaucratie
jeter des pierres et du pétrole de plomb,
accepter le baptême de canons à eau,
provoquer et de conquête primordiale,
rues configurés
par le rêve de la banlieue commandé
les champs de bataille maintenant frénétiques
d’une distinction des martyrs,
résolue et fier,
ceux avec seulement espérer que la protection
combattu sur

 

дим і сажа
не чіпали
ці залізні особи тиранії,
з їх стали машини
абсолютного підпорядкування,
тут під прапорами
трудилися ті землі
завод
магазин
офіс
лікарі пов’язані з бюрократією
кидав камінням і палаючий нафту,
приймаючи водомети хрещення,
викликати і завоювання першорядне значення,
вулиці налаштовані
впорядкованої приміському сні
тепер скажені поля бою
з мучеників відмінності,
рішуча і горда,
ті з тільки сподіватися, як захист
воював на

 

Rauch und Ruß
nicht berühren
diese Eisen Gesichter der Tyrannei,
mit ihren Stahl-Maschinen
der absoluten Unterwerfung,
hier unter Fahnen
geschuftet aus dem Boden
die Fabrik
der Shop
das Büro
Ärzte von Bürokratie gebunden
werfen Steine ​​und brennenden Erdöl-,
Annahme von Wasserwerfern Taufe
verursachen und Eroberung von größter Bedeutung,
Straßen konfiguriert
von der bestellten S-Traum
Jetzt rasenden Schlachtfelder
eines Märtyrer Unterscheidung,
entschlossen und stolz,
diejenigen mit nur hoffen, als Schutz
kämpften auf

 

الدخان والسخام
لم يتطرق
تلك الوجوه الحديد من الاستبداد،
مع آلات الصلب بهم
إخضاع المطلق،
هنا تحت أعلام
كدوا تلك الأرض
المصنع
المحل
المكتب
الأطباء ملزمة البيروقراطية
يلقي الحجارة واشتعلت فيه النيران البترول،
قبول المعمودية خراطيم المياه،
وتسبب الغزو قصوى،
شوارع تكوين
بواسطة حلم الضواحي أمر
معارك الآن المسعور
من التمييز الشهداء،
حازمة وفخور،
أولئك الذين لديهم الأمل الوحيد كحماية
قاتلوا على

 

 

Birago Diop -Viaticum

In none of the three jugs
The three jugs where on certain evenings return
the tranquil souls,
the breaths of the ancestors,
the ancestors who were men,
the ancestors who were sages,
Mother has dipped three fingers
three fingers of her left hand:
thumb, forefinger and middle finger

lawnchair before sunrise

ants led the way to the old boathouse
planks softened and warped
shingle roof dipped,
door scraped rough to touch
inside musty scent of the past decaying,
memories inserted of another life,
stacked next to tins forgotten and paint,
four lawnchairs
metal mottled chrome flaked
still cold to the touch,
infused with a past when
there where echoes of a young
family that once been
part of me,
lifting one out
stiff opening action,
outside in the air
it could of turned to dust,
instead it bore my weight
now i had passed an elegant age
lighter not so heavy,
eyes dimmed slowly in slumber,
this chair was symbolic in it’s structure
bending straps
rubber perished
one snapped,
i did not want to move
with wild turkey
and some cigars,
would i see the sunrise
that would have to wait till morning

image from recyclart.org

apartment to let

vibrant radiator harmony,
getting to his ears
before the daylight
ripped open his eyes,
and alphabet soup thoughts
swilled from side to side
in the bowl that is his skull,
twnty seven permutations
of how the day
would end up being,
rolling a cigarette,
strips of paper cut from
an old shelley poetry book
as if inhaling the words
would give creedence to his own,
that languished on pages
scattered like a womans dirty
underwear across the floor,
that masterpiece so often
rewritten not compiled,
new words scraped away the old
confidence from caffeine
lifted him to another level,
sun filled evey corner
a morning bronze age
renaissance to the heart,
sat up scratching legs
it would be complete

Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien

Alfonsina Storni – Running Water

alfosina storni