Skip to main content

*Medulla (Dylan - Baton Rouge, La)

His ribs were made of precious rocks

            Where dust was breathed into--

Sealed in seams and living locks

            Until this boy was born and grew;

Mocked that tree that built his box

            And held his soul---the one he split in two.




I. Numbed-Out Funeral Song


In my enameled haste, I bit away the husks and soft seams of my fingertip only to spackle my spirit in three cardinal-hat drops. While they fuse into the cotton mesh of a white buttoned shirt, a neon display lights the window of the Majestic Mortuary, singing and jiving to tip-toeing black umbrellas caught in the daylight. Hiding my red triad beneath the crisp diamond pattern of a silk tie, the trickles converge into the slick-black sequence of a forking geometry. I’m the only one who knows; I mourn for myself, I mourn for humanity in silent, silver-tongued requiems. No one else seems to notice---that it’s all going to break when they blanch and bleach in the swirling of a washing machine: red-erased, to become crisp as the calllus from which they entered the world, Souls, underground: we’ll pierce into the dirt and cycle through a precious twist of earth.


II. Transcendentalism


One wild, three-toed dove flaps its collection of pastel-brown feathers, sewn together into some dull, begging plumage. On the Ninth Street concrete, a pearly shine from the fowl’s bust blinds walkers and lookers that sneak a peek at the cyclic pomp. The tear in its chest has a pus-dried rust surrounding its lead-peg-heart---a nameless shape in its ruffle of frayed horns; each projects like a thousand silhouettes from a single spark. When the street darkens with the nightly cast of shadows, the dove---vertebrae aligning---swoons into some glint in the amethyst puffs above, mourning. The world is quiet but for the whistle of gilt luxury automobiles; the violenting clouds of sky rage with the wind---breathing like some shatterer of worlds, fearing the grounds that bury below.


III. Afterglow of a Sickle-Moon


We both heard the electric buoy of insects: black bees and beds of roaches, hissing at our feet as we paced by. The spider-shaped contour of exploding palms hid our path through the soot-colored dark. Scratched and seared by brambles of a city jungle, our chafing legs were pulled and forced by the nerving grasp of wild twilight. Like a wasted, old Man and Woman, we both stood hunched; two broken columns, two Kahlos in the pithed fluidity of our fear: “I hope the exit is joyful---and I hope to never come back.” Hundreds of termites, like wasps, smothered our skin beneath the enlarging glare of a streetlight, wings sticking to our faces as we hear their bursting murmurs beneath the leather souls of our shoes. The sky holds only a sickle-moon, held by invisible strings that cup our fate.




All that is left are his precious rocks,

            Turned to dust that which was breathed into---

Picked and pulled at those weathered locks

            Until ash became the boy who grew;

Now under, he lays six in his simple box

            With his soul---the one split in two.



*The inner core of certain organs or body structures, such as the marrow of bones. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

This Little White Boy Who Wanted Some Nigger In Him (James Leland Ludeau III - Lafayette, LA)

Grew up on a plantation
Removed
Secluded from the world
I knew classes but didn’t understand race
Because what raced through my veins wasn’t something of which I could ever speak
My father could fuck the slave girls
But I couldn’t touch the men
It filled me with resentment
Fueled my resentment with lust
Until it was too much to take
It was a small contained community
White as the cotton in the fields
Only dark around the edges where the black men lived
Ploughing the fields
I’d imagine them ploughing me
Sinewy
Glistening with sweat as the sun bathed their shoulders
The sweat running down until it pooled around the waistband of their thin cotton pants
Their skin
Black, almost indigo, like night
Some like coffee with milk in it
Cafe au lait
I could smell their musk
Watched as their muscly bodies worked
I yearned
Burned
This little white boy who wanted some nigger in him
To fall beneath the weight of one
As he heaved
As he forced his throbbing cock into my crevice
I longed for even the pa…

Poet's Cry for Mike Tidewell (Barry Sons - Berwick, LA)

I heard the Politician say in a hunter’s whisper, “There’s a poet in the marsh, I heard one today. He was crying about the marshland’s accelerated decay.”
“Mr. Politician, can you help us anyway? I refuse to think our marsh is so quickly Going away. If we can scan the galaxy And bring men back from the dead, Why can’t we save our marsh? I can’t Get that around my head.”
There’s a poet in the marsh, I heard one today. Whining and crying; Who needs them anyway?” “Mr. Politician, I’m here to make you feel. Try to wrap your heart around the things that Are real. Like love and friendship passion and Sorrow; the love of earth and concern for tomorrow.”
“There’s a poet in the marsh, I heard one today." Mr. Politician, I cry for America’s wetlands,

God Will Cry (Louis Toliver Jr - Swartz, LA)

This is your soul trying to connect to you for last the time. We have come to the final crossroad in our life. This is the end. These are our last earthly breaths.
From this abuse of yourself, we will both die. You will be a rotting corpse. I will fade away into Darkness. People may mourn your death, at first, but you will be forgotten, while I am left here molested by the hands of Hell.
God will cry, “My child didn’t fulfill her purpose.”
I’m begging you; don’t do this. It has been a slow ride, a slow descent to suicide.