Eavesdropping

A SIMPLE QUESTION

Is there a ticket into the reserved seats,
The roped off balcony in your head above
The quirky movements of the orchestra?
What can be read in the sheet music
Of your half-smile with its curling clefs;
An ancient oboe brooding in shadows
Or an internal organ piping its blues
Into your blood's oceanic motion?
Doesn't a subliminal sonata
ripple through this moment's facial flicker,
Coding your face's random freckles
Like a bowl of bruised bananas
Sporting spotted notes below attached stems:
Secret notation of the unsung soul?

Dreaming

LUCKY LADY

I wax for your witching eyes when the moon
Mints its shiny coinage high in the sky –
When the black chips of midnight and its boon
Of bright stars are flung nigh like dotted dice.
The dozing sun reclines in Jackpot dreams—
All the slotted machines flashing red lights
As their trays are heavied with coins in streams
And your eyes waxing now, like mine, excite.
For some coins are cool circlings of silver
Wagered on the green tables of a dream,
A smile pressing the next bet. In this room
Where one awaits embrace: a flicker
Of fluorescence kisses quick. Sudden gleam
Of subtext; a winning wink of the moon.

Status Update

Every once in a while as a poet you produce a poem that you feel like you didn't really write, but instead just happened to be holding the pen while it came through you. Below is one of the those kinds of poems for me, like all the technical aspects were internalized and I was just spouting pure poetry. It may be the fastest I've ever written any poem. I'm sure it can use some polishing, but there's plenty of time for that. Anyway . . .

[Untitled]

Once I was homeless
staggering down dark hallways
to snore in a sterile stairwell
where I dreamt your lips
kissing along my collarbone.
In the dream
your voice is cashmere
brushing my earlobe,
girlish and high
as Barbies on a shelf.
The curve of your spine
makes the small of your back
a jewelry box.
Like a snake, my tongue
can taste what will moisten
when I release its secret latch
and finger the velvet lining.
I have fallen down
enough bushy hillsides
to know how water
shimmers into a pool below.
I trace my name
in the sheen
on your inner thigh
Doesn't the forecast
of the first gasp
call for a firestorm in the brain
followed by a heavy downpour,
then the slow rhythm
of bright beads dripping
from eucalyptus leaves?

I have heard
that after the Autumn Equinox
you become Persephone
white knuckling the rail
of a long escalator
into a dark depression.
If, as we lay tangled as strands
of just washed hair
I held up a sliver of mirror
to reflect your laughter,
would it be sunlight enough
to seed the ceasing
of your smallest sorrows?

Or would it suffice
if you knew now
that last night
I slept again in a stairwell,
wrapped tight in the ragged
overcoat of my imagination
and felt the soft feet
of a nude descending
the staircase of my spine,
that her lips wore only a light gloss,
that this creaking morning
I'll stagger and stumble still,
but wearing her lip prints
like a necklace of light
whose gauzy glow hallows
whatever ground I cross?

Nude descending the staircase of a spine

Once again, the view from the curb. The whizzing and splashing and passing of tires adorned with shiny rims and women's feet, in knee high boots, bopping past you into forever. (The refrain is from 'True' by Spandau Ballet)

SWAN SONG

The logic of your neck is fuzzy
The fuzziest peaches tender scented
the tender flesh, most willing
willingness wells like ocean waves
the wave and beach involved in a bite
the softest bite somehow best

I know this much is true

It would be Monday with a muted trumpet
there would be a piano flickering
your fingers across ticklish keys
the mood almost aquamarine
a Flamenco is scantily sketched
a solo dance, then a sigh
the trumpet blows air kisses:
the last kiss is pianissimo

I know this much is true

The kisses now miss your neck
The neck of logic isn't long enough
I long for a tongue, fuzzy as the sun
the sun sinks into the ocean's mouth
the mouth says goodbye with a thousand waves
waves won't cleanse the memory of your scent

I know this much is true

Caramel cameos

Found a new muse, gonna follow her where ever she leads. Messing around with some haiku, senryu, pseudo-haiku and micro-poems. Need to get back to reading poetry everyday, whether I write that day or not. Anyway . . .

My thumb
parsing the soft parts-
of her peach

Lost, I feel
the trunk of her leg-
this moistness, moss?

The ocean's salty
tongue laps the brown lips
of the beach

fondling her ear
she licks her lips-
starshine

As I decide-
the waves race up the beach
and back down

On Love and Anger

Consider a clenched fist,
a flared nostril.
An expletive salting
the afternoon air.

Or a cashmere caress,
lips wet on a neck.
A whisper's velvet whirl
into an ear.

Two streams cascading
down different sides
of the same mountain.
Same fluid clarity.
Same foam
surging over
whatever lies
in the creek bed,
stirring turbulent reflections.
Who among us can bathe
and remain unswayed?

MELANCHOLY IS THE NEW ROMANCE

OK so here's a new sonnet, unrhymed, on an old topic. Still not sure about the title, but I'm just gonna let it marinate for now. I've got some interesting ideas for the next one, let's see if I can pull them off.

Sonnet #4

Are some things we resolve to sip simply
insoluble in sunlight or shadow,
solid as the oft denied dynamic
of sparkling hope fizzing in a fine glass?
The liquor of her laughter at my feat;
a jazz riff of ancient vintage on the
variable nature of our values
or a spinning record of our discord?
After she left, I arose, reeking of
the expensive perfume of high regret,
hearing hardy queries, old equations
in the new guise of Mile's muted trumpet.
Haunted by the inch of apricot wine
in the champagne flute of her parting smile.

Looking back, looking forward.

I wrote the following poem years ago, it was in my book '4,000 Shades of Blue' as well as on my CD 'LibationSong,' but I was never quite happy with the ending. I'm not one of those poets who won't revise a poem after they publish it, for me poems are often living, breathing things that grow over time. I've been known to continually revise and re-publish poems. Here is what I think is this poem's true ending, the one I lacked the skill to find almost 12 years ago.

SOLO (IN THE KEY OF NICOLE)

She’s Miss Sweet Potato Brown
a steamy statuette
with caramel-colored eyes.
And with pepper tongue twirling
she sets whole rooms whirling
her black tresses swirling
so devilishly dervish
and needlessly nervous
though wordlessly
wordlessly weird.
After kissing her
I stumble into drugstores
and desperately undress all the chocolate bars.
Though she refuses all flowers
and will not hold my hand
she sleeps with me in a heavy sweater
as though almost afraid of the cold.
But it’s not until morning
over raspberry tea, that I read
in the lines around her half-smile
that she’s haunted passion’s alley
and searched through all the cans
but finds herself still hunting
with heavily soiled hands.

Mixing mortar, baking bricks

Here's another try at the sonnet. This one is kind of special for me, been trying to write a poem for/about Phyllis Hyman for almost 12 years. I grew up with her younger brothers and sisters (she was eleven years older than me) and met her once in Union Station in DC. She was in line in the Food Court and I happened to be behind her and recognized her, she was dressed down and had just got off the train from NYC. We talked for about 15 minutes after we got our food, she was so fine and sweet and super quick and very real. Then she was gone.

NIGHT TRAIN
for Phyllis Hyman

What distant cry is this, whose rising moan,
whose flurry fleet of turquoise colored notes
caress the dark arms of the air? Then floats
and trails, rippling like scales or silver stones
awash and polished in a sonic stream
that cocks the head and taps the tempted toe.
Wends sibilant seduction in its flow,
vanishing towards the dawn like a dream.
Your bluesy whistle, hi-hatted with flair,
once also kissed the naked neck of night.
Improvised in the heat of harmony
it rose, a soft solo of hard blown air
dipping, fluttering, almost like a kite
held fast by cords, that somehow floated free.

I'm pretty happy with this version (Many thanks to Kevin Simmonds for his clear eye and sage advice), This poem probably needs to be recited from memory, rather than read off the page. I used to perform almost all of my poems from memory, but then again I used to dunk too. My dunking days are definitely over, but I can still memorize poems, it just takes work now, whereas before I would just remember them with no effort. I wish there was an open reading here in AC where I could go to try out some new stuff, maybe I'll trek into Philly to hit at one of the spots there.

Oh Happy Day

For a long time I've wanted to write a good sonnet. Lately some conversations on the Cave Canem Listserv got me to make some more attempts. I'm going to try to write five and see if any are worth keeping. Here is my first offering.

SONNET #6

The incense twists smoke into holy swirls,
cursive words written by a rising heat.
My fingers read the scripture of your curls,
looping in rhythm to a ballad's beat.
The night air darkens into a breeze, deep
and fragrant as a half-sipped glass of wine.
The ocean rocks our neighborhood to sleep,
though a shrouded moon seems too shy to shine.
Your shoulder is soft as a ripened plum,
warm as water in which we soon will bathe.
With quickening rhythm, our torsos drum
a hymn that crests like the peak of a wave.
Was any gospel writ on sheets so wet?
We pant in silence, drenched in sacred sweat.

Homage to my Old Town

IF ANYONE ASKS

I'm from houses on hillsides,
rivets in bridges and a tunnel's
dark mouth. From tiny rivulets
spilling into rivers trey or
the spray behind the Good Ship Lollipop.
From fragrant trees lining
a double-wide Shadyside boulevard,
a group of students earning
the steep grade of Mountain Ave.
or a back alley's cobblestone truth.
I'm from snow caps on city steps,
ice floes from bank to bank,
and rock salt crunching underfoot.
From behind Isaly's deli counter,
under the Kaufmann's clock,
pinned by a green pickle.
I'm from Falling Water and
Rolling Rock. From hoagies,
pierogies and chipped chopped ham.
From charred on the outside,
but ruddy on the inside.
I'm from a fountain that billows
at the confluence of dirty work,
clean sweat and hard desire.
From inclined rails slanting above
an abandoned warehouse and
the creaking descent of a cabled car.
From a furnace's 20 ft. flames
and a cauldron's white hot hiss.
I'm from triangular towers
and plate glass cathedrals,
from soot staining
forty-two Neo-Gothic stories,
and still stinging eyes downwind.
From Penn's woods and
Mr. Roger's neighborhood.
I'm from an arm that rifles
balls from the right field wall,
from the spittle jarred
by a hard tackle and the crust
of blood on a busted lip.
From a rusted trolley car
and a tugboat bullying a barge.
I'm from below the skull's hard hat
and above a skeleton of girders.
From the bluff over the river,
the gorge beneath the span,
the mist off the lock and dam.
I'm carried by a current

that courses hard
through the valley
of the shadow of steel.

Final Answer?

Looks like we might have a winner. After sleeping on it I settled on this version.

LASH DANCE

Your eyelids frame your
eyes and punctuate a question.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set against dark chocolate,
whose taut pupils decline to instruct, like
shells revealing, then concealing.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp jangles, quick as covert
glances, or eyelids flashing. One
cannot ignore this rhythm, I almost
seem to surmise a pattern.
To a curious lover, aren't blinks a
crack in the body's remorseful code?

But then recanted and switched to this;

LASH DANCE

Her lashes fly above her
eyes and punctuate a query.
Are they spilling secrets? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose taut pupils almost instruct, like
shells revealing, then concealing.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp jangles, quick as covert
glances, or eyelids flashing. I
cannot ignore these rhythms that
seem to surmise a pattern.
To an anxious lover, isn't any blink a
crack in an unremorseful code?.

After Pablo

This is my own translation of one of my favorite Neruda poems "Tu Risa"

YOUR LAUGHTER

Withhold bread from me
if you wish,
withhold even the air, but
do not hold back your laughter.

Do not withhold that rose,
the flower you pluck,
your joy bursting forth like water,
a sudden wave of silver
born of you.

My struggle is hard
and I return at times
with tired eyes,
having seen an earth
that will not change,
but on its entry,
your laughter
rises to the sky
in search of me,
opening all the doors of Life.

My love, in the darkest hour
your laughter blossoms
and if you suddenly see
my blood staining
the street's stones,
laugh, because for my hands
your laughter
is like a new sword.

Near the sea in Autumn
your laughter must lift
its cascade of foam,
and in the Spring, love,
I wish for your laughter
like a flower on which
I was waiting,
the blue flower, the rose
of my land echoing.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
at the crooked streets
of this island,
laugh at this clumsy boy
who loves you,
but when I open my eyes
and close them,
when my steps leave,
when they return,
withhold from me bread,
air, light, or even Spring,
but never your laughter,
for I would expire.

Revising What's Wrong

The problem with the previous poem "What's Wrong" is that both poems are saying the same thing, in pretty much the same way. I have to figure out what would make for good/interesting relationships between the two. Not sure yet. But the above isn't working, that much is clear. Maybe one is an open question, addressed by the other. I have to think more about the Tension/Resolution aspect of this.
Below find a second attempt. The poem is a quotilla where the seed phrase can be read down the left-hand margin.


Your almost grin teases the
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are you bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose steep angle tantalizes.
Shells and a tiny ball moving.
My questions pierce like a wind chime's
sharpest notes. Quick
glances rich as sips of Merlot,
cannot help provoking the palate. You
seem almost indecipherable. But,
to a cryptographer, isn't any expression a
crack in the body's code?

This isn't so much a revision as an almost total re-write. I like the second one much better,but still don't know that the two poems do different work.

Here the next version, with revisions:

Your almost grin frames your
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose steep angles tantalize.
Shells and a tiny ball moving.
My questions pierce like a wind chime's
sharpest notes. Quick
glances rich as sips of Merlot,
cannot help provoking the palate. They
seem almost indecipherable. But,
to a cryptographer, isn't every blink a
crack in the body's code?

Better, but now the central metaphor is mixed. So, let's fix that.

Your eyelids frame those
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose steep angles tantalize.
Shells concealing a tiny ball.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp notes, rapid as my
glances, melodious as sips of Merlot.
Cannot any code be undone? You
seem almost indecipherable. But,
to a cryptographer, isn't any blink a
crack in the body's code?

Progress, but still not home. let's try this:

WHEN YOU GRIN

Your eyelids frame your
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose steep angles tantalize.
Shells concealing a tiny ball.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp notes, rapid as these
glances, rich as sips of Merlot.
Cannot any code be undone? You
seem to almost have a secret. But,
to a cryptographer, isn't any blink a
crack in the body's code?

Closer, but let's set up the last two lines a little better by introducing the idea of blinking eyes earlier in the poem.

WHEN YOU GRIN

Your eyelids frame your
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose steep angles tantalize.
Shells concealing, then revealing a tiny ball.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp notes, rapid as these
glances, rich as sips of Merlot.
Cannot any code be undone? You
seem to almost hide a secret. But,
to a cryptographer, isn't any blink a
crack in the body's code?

I'm still unhappy with the fact that both poem's themes are the same. I 'm going to try to re-work the ending.

WHEN YOU LAUGH

Your eyelids frame your
eyes like a full-lipped optical illusion.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose taut pupils tantalize.
Shells concealing, then revealing a tiny ball.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp notes, rapid as these
glances, rich as sips of Merlot. I
cannot ignore the rhythm. I
seem to almost hear a secret.
To a cryptographer, aren't blinks a
crack in the body's Morse code?

Maybe there's something here, let's tweak it a bit.

WHEN YOU BLINK

Your eyelids frame your
eyes, punctuating a question.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose taut pupils refuse to instruct.
Shells conceal, then reveal tiny balls.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp notes, rapid as covert
glances, rich as sips of Merlot. I
cannot ignore the rhythm. I
seem to almost surmise an answer.
To a lover, aren't blinks a
crack in the body's remorseful code?

This almost looks like a keeper. Maybe a slight adjustment here or there.

ON BLINKING

Your eyelids frame your
eyes, punctuating a question.
Are they bemused or amused? Damn those
almonds set in dark chocolate,
whose taut pupils refuse to instruct, like
shells concealing, then revealing tiny balls.
My ears are pierced by a wind chime's
sharp jangles, quick as covert
glances, or eyelashes dancing. One
cannot ignore the rhythm. I
seem to almost surmise a pattern.
To a curious lover, aren't blinks a
crack in the body's remorseful code?

ANOTHER POEM ABOUT HER

The following poem is my first attempt at an idea that I think has great promise. The poem is a quotilla where the seed phrase is also an original poem of mine. It's a haiku like micropoem that reads "Your eyes are almonds whose shells my sharpest glances cannot seem to crack." What I'm going to try to do here is to leave all the drafts posted, so there will be a paper trail of the revisions. The initial version is below.

WHAT'S WRONG

Your eyebrows arch. But those
eyes brown as groundnut shells
are what stun, like almost
almonds set in dark chocolate.
Whose polar stare have you stolen?
Shells of Brazil nuts aren't tough as
my questions seem for you. The
sharpest barb I could shoot
glances off. Its point
cannot pierce your porcelain mask, you
seem so sullen, I struggle
to discover what could
crack the code of your mood.

A NEW TUNE

I'm really feeling this new form, the B-Bop Solo. Here is my second effort. Hopefully I'll have another one started soon. The first two were failed Quotillas, but soon I'll start culling lines just for this form.

AT DAWN
(B-Bop Solo #2)

We could interlock,
in need of only ourselves.
A magic morning
once birdsung,
now caressed by whispers.
We could breathe in sync
if in need of a rhythm.
The anagram of silence
spells license.
What wild letters
would our embrace be?
B is the first letter
of beginning,
an initial sound almost
sacred as any word
we might whisper.

We might hum
like bees in need
of a honey song.
A magic buzzing
softer now as we nestle.
We could search
each others mouths,
in need of the tongue
that spells the final prayer.
What syllables

would be sanctified,
what sound sacred,
what word
as worship?

We could gasp
"Oh, God"
in need of air
in magic mouths.
Now kissing,
we could coil,
in need of more heat.
Our sweat beads,
spells exertion.
What place touched
would tingle most,
be the trigger of
that first moan,
more sacred
than any word
we might imagine?

Here is a Spanish version, some parts of the poem (like the anagram) don't translate well since they are based on intrinsic elements of the English language. Many thanks to Leo Lobos of Chile for this fine translation.

Al amanecer
(B-Bop Solo # 2)

Podríamos entrelazarnos,
sólo necesitamos
de nosotros mismos.
Una magia al amanecer,
cantada por los pájaros,
acariciada por susurros.
Podemos respirar
en la sincronización
en la necesidad
de un ritmo.
El anagrama del silencio
nos deletrea
¿De qué cartas salvajes
está hecho nuestro abrazo?
una explosiva carta,
el sonido inicial casi
sagrado de cualquier palabra
acariciada por susurros.

Podríamos zumbar como abejas
en la necesidad
de una canción de miel.
un sonido de caricia,
ahora situado más cerca.
Podríamos buscar
otras bocas,
que necesitan de la lengua
para la oración final.
¿Qué sílabas serán santificadas?
¿Qué sonido sagrado pronunciarán?
¿Qué palabra será adorada como un culto?

Se podría susurrar
"¡OH, Dios"
en necesidad de aire
en gritos de mágico asombro.
Besarnos ahora,
entrelazarnos podríamos,
en necesidad de más calor.
Nuestro sudor se une,
en enérgicos hechizos.
¿Qué lugar
dispara
ese primer gemido,
más sagrado
que cualquier palabra?

Translated by Leo Lobos

Leo Lobos (Santiago of Chile, 1966) poet, essayist, translator and Chilean visual artist. Unesco-Aschberg Laureate for literature 2002. He has done residences in major creative artistic cultural centers in France and Brazil.

A poem about a woman I really need to stop writing poems about.

AFTER WORDS

I was in a nightclub
chatting with the drummer
while the band took a break,
when someone pushed
a jukebox button.
A sax riff swirled,
exquisite and haunting
as fog in an open field.
The piano rumbled ominous
as mallets bounced
like acorns off a tightened tom
into a bassline deep
and dark as an open well.
When the tune ended,
I walked over
to learn its name.
"Alabama" by John Coltrane
read the label.
I stood stunned
in a corner of the club,
knowing this song
was the most sad
and beautiful thing
I'd ever know.

Last night you paused
in a doorway,
hair furiously spilling
over an exposed shoulder,
lips freshly glossed
and fraught into a frown.
You asked if I had
any last thing to say
before you turned . . .
forever.
I thought of our first kiss,
your tongue frantic
as the outstretched hand
of a drowning woman.
Recalled you whispering
"You can take me, however you wish,
but never have me."
I looked silently into those eyes,
sadder than the surface of a dammed river,
beauty frozen like a willow in winter.
I come here now
thinking of "Alabama,"
to speak three words
I thought I’d never say:

I was wrong.

More fun from the felt

Ace on the river,
Damn, did it help him?
The dealer looks bored.

The board pairs-
on the TV above us,
a shiny new boat.

Scary river card-
I stare at his sunglasses,
staring at mine.

After betting,
he looks up at the ceiling-
I'm down.

Dealer daydreams,
everything is so quiet,
Oh, it's on me?

The perky blonde,
who won that massive pot-
has a full rack.

On the button
I raise five limpers-
without looking.

Flushed, but still drawing

Been wondering when the two great loves of my life (Poetry and Poker) would meet. The dam appears to have cracked, here is the first trickle through.


After bluffing-
I watch a cute asian chick
stack my chips.

On the river,
a flash of red-
my heart?

All-in with a flush,
another spade turns-
I dig for more cash.

After betting big-
his chest rises, falls,
rises.

Betting AK
on a nine high flop-
lint on the felt.

HAIKU

On the beach-
this book of nature poems
opens me.

Above the red lips
below the black brows-
the green of her eyes.

On this brick wall,
a dead kid's name-
still dripping.

Where I've been

It turns out I've visited 35 of the 50 states, although some states I was just passing through on the way to somewhere else. I can't remember if I've been to South Dakota or not. I'm pretty sure I went to Kentucky to eat at a restaurant with Jeff McDaniel and Joe Ray Sandoval on an AWP trip. I think the least amount of time I spent in any state was 45 minutes in Nevada, when me and Kenny Carroll changed planes in Vegas coming back from a poetry convention in Cali. I've spent most of my life (19 years) in DC, which isn't on this map because it isn't a state. The state I've lived the most amount of time in is PA (17 years), next is MD with one year in Baltimore in '68, then 4 years in PG County during the '80s, then NJ since I've basically spent the last 4 years in Atlantic City. I lived in TX, MS, WA, and MD during my three years in the US Air Force. No matter where I go or where I live, if someone asks me where I'm from, the answer will always be "Pittsburgh, PA."


visited 35 states (70%)
Create your own visited map of The United States

Aint no Third Verse

Years ago I read in an interview by Bill Withers (one of my favorite songwriters) that the infamous "I know, I Know, I know . . ." section of 'Aint No Sunshine' came about because he hadn't writen a third verse yet and used that phrase as a mere placeholder (intending to replace it) but after hearing it, felt it brought something special to the song and kept it. I've always wanted to write my own 3rd verse, but it's much more difficult than it looks. You're only writing 2 new lines of 7 syllables each, since the song is a 12 bar blues and most of the lyrics are a repeating form, but still. So far I've got

"AInt no sunshine when she's gone,
[every face I've found is gray],
Aint no sunshine when she's gone,
[and I crave her all day long]
anytime she goes away.

Instead of Procrastinating

I was playing around with an extended riff on a list of words I got from Evie Schockley's Intro to the issue of Mi Poesia she edited, just trying to write some pure poetry, I came up with this. A kind of ecstatic exhortation, something different than what I usually write.

ON A LAZY DAY

Question the callalily,
Query its silent symbolism,
Dispute the divinity of its hue.
In question- The sturdiness of rhetorical stems,
Out of question-The plural of floral pleasures,
Beyond question-The dazzle of their dew.
Sequester all cellular insecurity,
Confiscate the plastic plants of certainty and
Seize the cool assurance of shadows.
Bequest a quick climbing vine,
Inheritance of the curious,
Legacy of the lost,
Heritage of the hopeful.
Quest incessant like a foaming wave,
Search scattered beaches on an
Expedition of dangerous desire,
Voyage of raging joy,
Odyssey of the seldom sane. An
Inquest of the native unknown,
Inquiry into thickets of thorniness.
Request random rhododendrons,
Plea bargain for the boldness of marigolds,
Call for kisses the color of cornflowers.
Wish for a dahlia's dense geometry and
Desire the daisy’s scalar
Conquest of the meadow’s melody.
Vanquish the stinging insects of doubt and
Defeat fear’s spiking spree by
Climbing a single sunbeam. Then,
Scale the sky's face with your
Acquisition of luminal levity and
Prize blindly what blossoms below.

A New Hymn

OK, so my old idea for the B-Bop Solo had actually already been invented, and had a name (the Quotilla) thus I have created a new form that I'm really excited about, this form will freely allow me to utilize Jazz ideas of improvisation in poetry. The idea is simple; to start by writing multi-stanzaic Quotillas, and then redo the line breaks and revise the poem in whatever way best helps the poem. Each stanza will still be tied together by the ghost of the original phrase, but the poems should flow better and lose all of the awkwardness that comes from being forced to use certain words in certain places. Here is the old B-Bop Solo #4, based on the Louise Gluck line "At the end of my suffering there was a door."

THE FIRST GOSPEL
B-Bop Solo #1

At the darkest center
of the soul,
there is a cry
without end,
the song of whatever
one suffers.
The eye is the pupil
of its own affliction,
a darkness dilating
like a learning.
Is the 'I' lashed?
Is something like skin broken,
the opening jagged,
groaning like a door?

At the core
of the cry, an 'I'.
In the center
of the 'I', an Iris.
At the end of its stem,
a serrated slash.
In the mouth
of the slash,
a bead of blood.
In the blood
of the suffering,
a saltiness.
From the salt
a sound crystalizes.
The sound is a hinge,
and from a swinging
of the hinge,
something like that door
opens.
Beyond . . .
a new Hymn.

Just poking around

I unscrewed a simile

to see what was in it,

and found a smile
with an eye inside.

Kinky Naps

So I lie down, eyes closed.
Sin wears silky lingerie, a
thin disguise for her
thighs. She
tangles my hair,
singles out a strand,
samples its aroma,
bands it together.

Bound, it feels better.

One fringe benefit
of being a poet
is that even
when you're down
you can at least
throw objet d'arts
at the target of your sorrow.

Reasons

It isn't always
a tornado that tears
down the walls of the house.
We once lay interlocked
like links in
a fence around
the potato patch of love.
Your lips nudged my ear
with the words of Neruda
in the original Español,
every palabra coloring
your tongue like
a twist of licorice.
I fed you lines of Lorca
like fettucine al dente,
my voice warm and saucy.
We shared Shakespeare's phrases
like fries from McDonald's,
no ketchup needed.
And I guess what is woven
through all of this
like a blue strand of straw
is that we could've
kept feeding each other forever.
But nothing freezes my teeth
like cold peanut butter
and you just couldn't stop
putting the jar back
into the refrigerator.

On The Long Way Home

She said
she liked
being made
to wait
for it.

And thus
was in love
with ellipses . . .
the latest
of the Greek heroes.

Warning

Much of the following poem started out as Status Updates on Facebook.

DISCLAIMER

This is a free range poem,
devoid of antibiotics
and bovine hormones.
No animals were harmed
in the writing of this poem,
although it was tested
on several chimpanzees.
This poem has swollen hands
from swimming all night
through dark water.
This poem is not seeking asylum,
this poem was produced in a place
that processes nuts.
Do not attempt to duplicate this poem
it was performed
by a professional driver
on a closed course.
This poem is not readable on radar,
but has a high heat signature.
The claims of this poem
have not yet been verified by the FDA.
This poem denounces and rejects
Denouncement and Rejection.
This poem thought it looked sexy
in its dipthong,
then realized it had a consonant
caught between its teeth,
and vowel lint stuck
in its stubble.
This poem may cause you to feel
a sudden rise in blood pleasure.
If after hearing this poem
you experience an erection
lasting for more than 4 hours . . .
consider yourself lucky.
This poem knows firsthand
why the King of Hearts
is the suicide King.
This poem is absolutely,
positively not paranoid,
but very aware of the fact
that you have been following it
all the damn time.

What Was the Question Again?

On the pillow
beside my head-

her sigh.

On the Calamity of Cobalt Sphericals

THE TRUE MEANING OF THE BLUES
(according to Neckbone Nelson)

Is to be alone and horny
as a nine-headed rhinoceros.

With arthritis in your left hand
and rheumatism in your right.

For Frida

Here's what I came up with for today. Enjoy.

SHIVER

It is dark
as I enter the garden.
Gently, I push aside
the twin slender branches
and marvel
at the moistness
of the petals, before
slowly
parting them
to bare
a glistening bud.

Then, softly,
I touch it
with the tip
of my tongue.

Light Through the Blind

Here is day two's entry. For whatever reason I write more poems when I'm running bad at poker, and judging from my results the last three days this 30 poems in 30 days thing might turn out to be a cakewalk.

SONRISE

Today is not 

my birthday.

But, what a gift
I am given,

when I awaken
and encounter

the up-curling corners
of your eyes.


(for Joel)

For NaPoMo

OK, so it's National Poetry Month. This year to honor the month I'm going to abstain from banal intercourse and re-dedicate myself to the oral. Which means I'm going to try to post a new poem every day. Obviously most of them will be very short, and probably not very good. But here goes . . .

In the high coo
of a mourning dove, I hear
seventeen things to sing.

Haiku

March morning
the windshield wipers fling
Cherry Blossoms

Quotilla #9 (your eyes are almonds)

WHAT'S WRONG

Your eyebrows arch. But your
eyes brown as groundnut shells
are what stun, those almost
almonds set in dark chocolate.
Whose polar stare have you stolen?
Shells of Brazil nuts aren't hard as
my question seems for you. The
sharpest arrow I could aim
glances off. It 
cannot pierce your porcelain mask, you
seem so sullen, I struggle
to imagine what could
crack the code of your mood.

Split this Rock

I'll be on Al Jazeera (English) on Sat. Mar 15th at noon reading and being interviewed as part of the Split this Rock Festival. I'm also reading on Fri. Mar 21st at 5 PM along with Grace Cavalieri among others.

Quotilla #5

This poem riffs off the first few lines of Louise Gluck's 'The Wild Iris'

PUPIL OF A REDDENED EYE

At the dark core of the cry, an 'I'. In
the center of the 'I', an Iris. At the
end of its stem, a slash. In the mouth
of the slash, a bead of
my blood. In the blood of the
suffering, a saltiness. From the salt
there rose a sound. The sound
was a hinge, and from
a swinging of the hinge, a
door. Around its edges . . . light.

Quotilla #4

Here the initial riff is from Dylan Thomas' famous villanelle. I wanted to write a piece that worked against its riff.

SOLO FOR AN INSOMNIAC

Do you
not trust the dark? Why else
go raging against
gentle twilight? Ranting
into tantrums
that grow full as a
good beard, wild as untamed
night. As the sun of
rage seethes, feel how
rage siphons, drains
against the body's batteries.
The day may be
dying, and the hum
of peace might need
the melody of moon-

light.

Do you still
not trust the dusk? Refuse to
go in search of a
gentle massage, a dip
into the darkening
that caresses like a
good breeze, forecasting
night? Won't peace, not
rage last, since
rage exhausts, flames
against the serene?
The discord of day is
dying, and the sighs
of solace appear to thrive in
the languor of lowered
light.

For Sodade's Sake

Sodade is the Kriolu word for the Portuguese term 'saudade.' It has no direct English equivalent and is a mix of homesickness and nostalgia.

IN MY SOLITUDE

Her voice is a breeze,
her song washes
like eternal waves,
although sea water
and the salt of sorrow
may be married.
Medleyed with a moving sun,
her tone tracks the heart's arc.
Since all that rises fears
what falling might follow,
she is careful,
sings of descent first,
is cautious with what hope
she allows to be
heard in the harmony.
And I wonder
what price of translation
she pays, as she sings
in a voice that is naked
and slowly utters
every word
by barefoot
word.

Her voice is more searchlight
than song, splashes the dunes
with waves of something
wilder than water.
Her lyrics are an island's sighs
medleyed with moonlight,
a sound like whales exhaling.
Since tears also shine,
what saline struggle
she's tasted illuminates her,
perhaps reflecting
what traces of grace
she may have seen
in the foam swirling
across what beach she walks.
She knows the sea and sorrow
sing in the same key,
but still chooses to lift me
with what the tide
utters in the interim,
word by rising word.

(For Cesaria Evora)

Don't piss me off

I'm having a lot of fun with the 'Red Wheelbarrow' and Conceptual Art. Here's another take. With apologies to William Carlos Williams and Marcel Duchamp

MODERN ART

so much depends
upon

a white porcelain
toilet

signed by the
artist

beside the pale
critics.

Put this in your Museum

Part of an ongoing series of poems celebrating artists from Pittsburgh. The blog posts don't do columns and I don't know enough HTML to make it display correctly, but this poem is meant to be read in columns, not straight across the lines. 

[from Andy's lost manuscript]

so much depends        so much depends      so much depends
upon                upon                upon

a fuschia wheel          an orange wheel    a golden wheel
barrow                       barrow                     barrow

glazed with rain         glazed with rain     glazed with rain
water                   water                water

beside the indigo          beside the aqua        beside the green
chickens.                chickens.             chickens.

Blue in Green

On May 15th, 2007 my cousin LaSon White passed at the age of 46. Although 46 is terribly young, at 45 she had actually lived longer than her mother and grandmother, a fact that was not lost on her.
Of all my cousins, she and I were probably closest, on every trip back to Pittsburgh I called or stopped past her store. Smart, stylish, caring, her smile was often antidote for whatever ailed me. Because I got the first call in April, I set the poem there and took a little poetic license at the end. This piece has a hint of Whitman and a twist of Eliot.

A Solo for LaSon

April sprouts around us,
is the sky as sullen there?
The hour after we talked was
cruelest, most raw. In less than a
month, your doctor says
breeding cells will overwhelm you.
Lilacs bloom here as there, just
out the door. Purple hints
of all the Prince songs we've shared.
The plentiful petals are
dead certain to flutter around,
land and decorate your walkway.

April's sibilant drizzle
is like a cymbal, mocking
the insistence of memories,
cruelest at dusk. What other
month would dream of
breeding, then watering these
lilacs purple as bruises?
Out of the incessant rhythm
of the rain's thin fingers,
the melody of a woman's voice
dead on key, singing 'Adore',
lands on my quivering ears.

April winds wane,
is that the phone ringing amid
the backscatter of the evening news?
Cruelest is the quiet after the call.
Month after month will sprout,
breeding a peace soothing as those
lilacs you loved so much. But right now,
out on the horizon, the purple song
of the setting sun is
the last hope I have, of being
dead silent and hearing your voice in the
land of the living.

(For LaSon C. White, 1961-2007)

For Hope (A Little Star)

IN A SILENT WAY
B-Bop Solo #1, Ars Poetica

The code eludes all but tillers of
text, a secret not simple
for deciphering. Because
today, an undertone
Is dismissed too
early, too easily. Although
miles separate the source of
the river from the sea, hasn't the
Columbia called for
years in undercurrents? And doesn't
that same submerged
tone still guide salmon
pared almost
down to skeleton and skin
to home, with the sparest of
essentials, subtext?

FOR COLORED GULLS WHO HAVE . . .

Nothing brightens up the day like a bit of despair.

EIGHT WAYS OF LOOKING AT LONELY

[one]

A wisp of white against an eternal blue.

[two]

A tiny town

in Alaska.

[three]

Along twenty occupied bar stools,
the only moving thing
was the hum of the Blues.

[four]

Maybe cuts on the wrists,
or a cup of cyanide,
or a fork in the toaster,
or fumes filling the car,
or pills in the hand,
or a bullet in the chamber,
or a rope dangling from a ceiling,
but definitely the dive from a bridge to the river.

[five]

An empty set of parentheses.

[six]

Always an invitation, never an RSVP.

[seven]

In a mirror while everyone else is sleeping.

[eight]

As seed of the unplucked peach.

Variations on a Theme

Just messing around with some new ideas, thought I'd try this and see how it turns out, more of trying to use Jazz ideas, actually Bop ideas, (making a new melody out of old chord changes), analogically with language in poetry. This form is called a 'Quotilla' and they are kind of the opposite of a sestina. We'll see how it turns out.

Four Variations on a Theme

(for Joelito)

I am holding you in one arm,
can't find anything else to pack.
"Stand still, Daddy" you beg,
the words falling faster than
rain rushing down the gutters, racing
against everything that falls,
my reign in this house included. The
window frames the sullen clouds.

I know what the clock says, and
can't solve what still
stands between me and
the woman you call Mommy.
Rain drums its cold fingers
against the heads of houses. Outside,
my parking meter has expired, the
window filled by a bright red flag.

I set your two years down slowly,
can't hold you any longer.
"Stand there by the windowsill,"
the door groans to you as it closes.
Rain rumbles, flashes a dagger
against the dark sky, you,
my only child, want to run past the
window, to my arms bulging with boxes.

I reach the van, turn a last time,
can't believe how you
stand so still as I close
the door. A fine curtain of
rain falls, refusing restrictions
against its wishes, animates your arms,
my hands. From opposite sides of each
window we wave, faces dripping.

THE IDEA OF IMPROV

Here's an experiment, it's a half-breed idea partly based on the Bop and partly based on a form called the 'Lyric Acrostic' or 'Quotilla' that I first saw used by by Evie Shockley. It's just the first take (so to speak), I'm not sure about a couple of things, like if the underlying structure is too esoteric. Although if the piece works that shouldn't matter. The problem is, I don't know if it works on its own or not, that's probably the main thing I'm unsure of. We'll see, I'll sit on it a couple of days, maybe tinker with it a tad. Anyway;

The Idea of Improvisation at Newport '61
(with apologies to Oscar Hammerstein and John Coltrane)

Butter on biscuits and denim on dresses,
Perfume on pillows and long sassy tresses,
Sweet tea from tumblers in throat soothing swigs,
These are some cool things a cat like me digs.

Raindrops and fingers drum
On the windshield of the car,
Roses lovely up an empty seat
And await your smile, white as
Whiskers curling
On my chin. Curious as
Kittens, they anticipate your
Bright eyes, shiny as
Copper pennies, two
Kettles of kindness.
And what could be
Warm as your hands? Not knitted
Woolen scarves, or those red
Mittens you lost last winter. Long
Brown legs, where are you?
Paper bag brown, twin slender
Packages of promise. Are you
Tied up on the telephone, tied
Up in a meeting
With the boss like
String knotted into fishnet?
These questions vex,
Are six roses sufficient?
A light drizzle falls, a
Few wayward drops
Of rain caress my hand,
My fingers think of your
Favorite spot to be touched, imagine
Things they'll soon coax you to say.

Cranberry candles and cognac in crystal,
Flannel pajamas and touches that tickle,
Feeding you chocolate with raisins and figs,
These are some cool things a cat like me digs.

Bluetooth til the batteries die

If you have a minute and are interested in reading some very good poems, check out the online journal Quest. The current issue is edited by Evie Shockley. I knocked out another Bop, this one is lighthearted and fun and based on a line from a song Prince wrote, although the two female cover versions (Stephanie Mills and Alicia Keys) may be more famous than his. It starts off with a Dr. Seuss riff and gets more bizarre from there.


PLEASE SET ALL CELLPHONES TO 'VIBRATE'

One phone, two phones, red phone, blue phones,
and still, a watched pot never boils.
I got an antique Bell in the attic,
gotta cordless can in the den,
got a slim cellphone with phat ringtones
that I stole from the T-mobile store, but . . .

How come you don't call me anymore?

You thought a Sub was a sandwich,
Thought Dom was a brand of champagne,
Didn't believe a Tootsie Pop lick
could make you cry out a name.
Was there too much static in my lines,
too much kinkiness in my cord?
I let you play my number,
straight, boxed and even Pick Four, but . . .

How come you don't call me anymore?

Was there something odd in my digits,
too many sixes, not enough nines?
If it's a question of not enough change,
I'll donate a dumpster of dimes.
Maybe I shouldn't have left you
handcuffed and moaning for more, but . . .

How come you don't call me anymore?

Check It out

We sat on different sides of the porch.
The sky was flat and black
as a freshly washed chalkboard,
all the bright equations erased
as if by some giant galactic hand
while fireflies mimicked the missing stars.

Please remember what I told you to forget

What split us? Maybe me having to be right,
maybe you having to be snide,
maybe it was X + Y never really equaling Z.
Maybe it was the way your almost orange cat
scratched at the bottom of the stairs,
or the old issues my white stray found
behind the Recycle can. Maybe it was just
the constant criticism of the crickets.

Please remember what I told you to forget

Take the time to look out your window,
note how the stars have returned.
We agree that neither of us
enjoys Long Division.
If we reduce the fractions,
perhaps we can find a common denominator.

Please remember what I told you to forget

Will it Go Round in Circles?

AN ARE AND BE BOP

A rhythm incessant and roiling like rain,
rushing to spill, I realize now,
rolls the rich blackness of your eyes.
Below the thick, rhyming lashes, curving
like question marks, revealing as riddles,
lie random clues to all the things you are.

There will be an answer, Let it be, let it be.

Blue, is the color of your favorite wine,
Since you were born under such a bad sign.
And the Blues is what you gave me,
When I asked you for your hand,
I said, the Blues is what you gave me,
When I asked you for your hand.
Does your rain form a rocky rapids
that capsizes every man?

There will be an answer, Let it be, let it be.

Maybe the question that blazes in your eyes,
Is what makes it so very warm for May.
Still, you soak my heart like a heavy towel,
Til I can't stand the rain, outside my window.
And I wonder, if I run my tongue up your bare spine,
How long will it rain, how hard will it fall?

And, there will be an answer, Let it be, let it be.

Letting Go of My Egrets

My egrets land after the sun goes down,
whirling on the evening wind
wide as the skirt of a winking woman,
whose lipstick is red as a deadly sin
and shinier than an Archangel's conscience.
My egrets are long-beaked,
fish the cloudy marsh of my conscience,
they do not eat like birds,
their hunger will not be sated
by a single multi-finned act of contrition.
My egrets are sacred, but will not sit
pretty on the head like
my grandmother's Sunday hats.
My egrets caw as they claw the water's skin,
caws sharp as the teeth of a tiger shark.
My egrets are not an endangered species,
they rise plumed like geysers in moonlight
and multiply like mathematicians from MIT.
I recall the words that created
many of my smaller egrets,
when they surround my squeaky bed at night
with their rapid knee-high cries.
My biggest egret tosses its head
like a woman I never asked to marry me.
My egrets are Herons, but not heroic,
and almost addictive as heroin.
I sometimes wonder about my egrets
as they strut about in their long-legged gait;
how they fly so far on those thin white wings,
how they maintain such perfect memories,
why I feed them so religiously every night?

Bop # Two

Thought I would give it another shot;

LANDSCAPE WITH ECHO

When your laughter sparkles and falls
soft as snowflakes, where does it land?
Why does it flitter in a way
I understand easy as my first language?
Still, there’s no manual on how to handle
a smile more musical than a marimba.

Sounds never dissipate, they only recreate in another place.

I pray my tongue will someday taste
the brown vowels of your shoulder,
will learn the pronounciation
of my emotion’s soft consonants.
Everyday, I practice whispering
those seven silver syllables,
trying to say your name
as something other than a prayer.

Sounds never dissipate, they only recreate in another place.

If I hand you my glistening heart,
Would you dance to its beat in the open air?
Some questions radiate like ripples across a pond.
Some splash and collect
like rainwater in a Mason jar
on the windowsill of the heart.

Sounds never dissipate, they only recreate in another place.

Bopping in the Key of Me

The piece i wrote for Sekou was my first Bop ever, and it didn't turn out half bad. I enjoyed discovering the form from the inside and think I want to write eleven more, and call them a 'circle of Bops.' One of the key lines to a Bop is the repeating refrain which comes from a song. If anone out there has any lines from lyrics to suggest, I'm open. Van Jordan was here this weekend to read and he said he thinks picking the right song line is the key to writing a successful Bop and I agree. Since the line repeats after every section, it has to be open-ended enough to allow the poem some room to develop. I'll start by harvesting eleven lines and then work from there. Right now I'm thinking about this line from Sara Smile "If you want to be free, you know you can go, all you have to do, is say so" And this one from EWF's 'I Write a Song' "Sounds never dissipate, they only recreate in another place." or Ann Peebles "I can't stand the rain, against my window" or Tavares "Please remember what I told you to forget." or Elton John's "I guess that's why they call it the Blues."

Elegy Indigo

The poet Sekou Sundiata has passed away after suffering two heart attacks. His poem 'Open Heart' from the CD 'Blue Oneness of Dreams' has long been a favorite of mine, both the epigraph and the line 'Finally, finally . . .' are from that piece. We have lost one of our most beautiful voices. Here is a small prayer (in the form of a Bop)

ELEGY INDIGO

The text for today is early Miles, the Columbia years . . .
That tone pared down to essentials.
Sekou Sundiata

"Did Miles mute his horn, because
a breeze might carry kites a gust could mutilate?"
Call him poet, professor. Call me shaky grasper of the chisel,
caught up in a run-on rush to hammer it all, loudly, now.
The memory rushes in, white-capped and frothing like a wave
but recedes slowly as a blue crab on freshly wet sand,
bright bits of one's life clasped tight in its claws.

Finally, finally, I come to believe in loss as a way of knowing.

How long does it take to hear what the silence is saying?
I stand at a stoplight, waiting for the colors to change.
At forty-five one has to deal with muscles and eyesight fading.
Not just fading like blue from the knees of your favorite jeans
or lights on a stage holding only a now silent microphone,
but fading like a goateed poet in a stingy brim hat
covering the bets of a hooded man with unholy holes for eyes
and the curved blades of scythes where his fingernails should be.

Finally, finally, I come to believe in loss as a way of knowing.

If the Blues is a river, doesn't it both carry in and wash away?
LEDs are replacing halogen and incandescent lamps
and now the headlights of some approaching cars are slightly blue
as his velvet tone joins the voices of all my fallen fathers,
and I tremble, ever so slightly, like a kite in a breeze
or the reed in a Harmon mute during a note's last linger.

Finally, finally . . . I come to believe in loss as a way of knowing.

Honfleur reading

Hey kids, I'll be reading with Patrick AKA Black Picasso this Wed. June 6th at 7:30PM @ the Honfleur Gallery in Anacostia. Should be fun, I've revised 'How I became a Poet' and 'A New Note on Tone' and look forward to reading both of those. I'm also considering doing a new chapbook, although I doubt I'll have it ready for the reading.

Reading

Hey all, long time no post. I'll be reading at the Kennedy Center this Mon. (14th) at 6PM at the Millenium Stage. Actually I'll be slamming with some older poets;Regie Kabico, Silvana Straw, Chris August against some younger poets. For those of you who didn't make it, there is a live stream available on the Kennedy Center Millenium Stage website The 'Artist' is DC WritersCorps and the year is 2007, my first poem is about 14 minutes in.

Also, one of my poems seems to have taken on a life of its own. The poem "48 Hours After You Left" was recently re-published in "Love Poetry Out Loud" edited by Robert Alden Rubin on Algonquin Books, after being published in "Spoken Word Revolution". If you click on the link provided on the sidebar however, you will notice that the current posting of the poem is on someone else's MySpace page. It isn't clear if the girl who posted this is trying to claim credit for it, or just posting it because it expreses how she feels. It is however posted without proper attribution, and this is the third time I have found this particular poem posted this way on the web on someone else's webpage. I am very happy that people found some sort of connection to my work, I do however wish that they would credit me. All in all it's probably a good problem to have.

A Note on Tone

I wrote this piece to respond to a running joke on the Two-Plus-Two message board, in a Forum called Beats, Brags and Variance. There is a stickied post called "A Note on Tone" and another called "a New, New Note on Tone" that lay out the guidelines for what is and isn't appropriate. Some of the posters there (including moderators) posted some replies that both punned on and made fun of the original. One such post was called "A Note on Karl Malone" and was basically his Wiki entry, there were others like "A Note on Home Alone", and "A Note on Scones" So to have some fun and keep up the chops, I wrote this poem in that spirit. I used as end rhymes all the titles of the imitating posts

A New, (Blue) Note on Tone

Six-nine from his skully to his big-toe bone
eyes that sparkled like stream washed stones
shiny waves in his hair, skin a caramel tone
sported satin shirts that were exquisitely sewn
he preferred hot grits to cold corn-pone
had a thing for biscuits, never fucked with scones
he played First Trumpet to my slide trombone
my Ace-boon-coon, I rolled with him alone
the first # listed on my wireless phone
red to the rods and callow to the cones,
his rap was melodious, never a drone
he drank hot perfume, farted cool cologne
made pelvises sing and bed springs groan
he knocked up Alicia who I wanted to bone
was in love with Mary Jane, but married Joan
spent years in a cell with a porcelain throne
cuz he broke into her crib when she was Home Alone
dug Chris Webber, but hated Karl Malone
swung a bat quicker than Al Capone
always played his man, never played zone
played poker alnight, slept while the sun shone
rode a hundred bucking horses and was never thrown
died in his sleep before being fully grown
and was buried in a jacket of purple and roan
then eulogized in a Toast like the baddest man known.

OK, so I took the CC group piece below as a starting point and using my contribution as the first line, wrote a new poem:

HOW I BECAME A POET

At the age of five I saw words
dancing like daffodils in a downpour,
turning my heart like a Lazy Susan.
I could feel that iambs were woolly but not white,
and saw that even inside nursery rhymes
there were waves of sheer darkness.
At thirteen I thought words mere vandals
scrawling slogans on the walls of the world,
even though some coiled inside me like cobras.
At eighteen I knew that
when the heart sang, the mouth closed,
since desire denied was my lone truth.
At twenty-five I wondered if words
could rise to greet us in the great beyond,
the holy ones swimming around the head like heat?
Was it true there was no notice in the mail to wait on,
no permission to give or get.
At thirty I wondered if it would be flagrant
to listen for the fluttering wings
of speech when silent walls surrounded.
If outside these closed windows, other open windows . . .
Then, one Sunday afternoon
while sitting at a chess table in Dupont Circle
locked into the logic of ‘If I do this, then he does that'
My opponent pointed westward down P Street
to rapidly advancing rain clouds.
He feared a dark menace moving in to drench,
and uttered a single word.
But in a sudden summer storm,
I saw black clouds billowing
like dust behind charging Knights,
heard in the call and response of flash and boom,
a Bishop blessing the communion
between White openings and Black endings.
Baptized in this rain of revelations,
cool against the skin as a quick wind
sending black rooks flying,
I tasted the Word's hidden tingle,
and my new tongue unleashed like lightning
across a blank page of startled sky.

Mano a Mano

Whenever I'm running bad at poker it seems like the poems start flowing. I was thinking about writing a poem for one of the waitresses at the Borgata, but instead I pulled out an old piece and re-wrote it:

(For Gigi)

When you toss your head
stirring the dark mystery of your hair,
how are the almonds of your eyes
suddenly so brown?
Why do your lips glisten,
ripe as an apple
rain recently kissed?
My hands have trekked
from Australia to Zaire.
Yet the tantalizing terrain
between the soft shore
of your forehead
and the brown beach of your feet
leaves them befuzzled,
grasping at air.
Lacking any compass,
nautical chart or North Star.
They have kayaked currents
on the Silver River,
rambled up the rocks
of Mt. Rainier,
even delved the depths
of the Mediterranean Sea.
But your passionate pout
may harbor more treasure
than any ocean’s sunken chests.
So these hands
dream of wandering down
the coiled conundrum of your spine
and up the twin exclamation points
of your thighs,
until they solve
every beautiful riddle
the country of your body contains.


after Pablo Neruda

Breezing

I just picked up the new Al Jarreau + George Benson CD entitled "givin' it up". It is extraordinary, not good, extraordinary, the lineup of musucians alone made me buy it, without hearing any of the tunes first. I couldn't see how that group could go wrong, included are Herbie Hancock, Marcus Miller, Patrice Rushen, Paulinho DaCosta, Stanley Clarke, Patti Austin, Jill Scott, Chris Botti, and so on. The material ranges from R+B to Smooth Jazz to Straight Ahead Bop. Highlights include; covers of Miles Davis 'Tutu' and 'Four', an instrumental cover of John Legends' 'Ordinary People', Seal and Crofts 'Summer Breeze' and Hall and Oates 'Every Time You Go away'. Great tunes, well played. I've also been absolutely in love with Joy Denalane, the German Soul singer. Her album 'Mamani' and its live DVD counterpart are very much worth the effort necessary to track them down. I also can't wait for Lura's new album which should be out soon. I also recently revised the poem below 'The man with the Blues Guitar' it is actually a decent poem now.

Dodge 2006

Finally after all these years I got the chance to attend the Dodge Poetry Festival. I left Atlantic City at 3 Am Friday morning on my way to NYC, where I changed buses at Port Authority and caught an express bus to the DPF. I got there around 9:30 am on Friday and went straight to the Border's tent. I was browsing the books and came across Ross Gay's "Against Which". I had never me the brother, never heard him read and had only read one or two of his pieces before. I gave his book my personal litmus test, which is to read the first and last poems in the book. The first poem was so good I decided to buy the book right away, $120 later i wobbled out of the tent looking for something to eat. Went past the main tent where Jorie Graham was droning on about hedgehogs? (actually 'Hedgerows") The first panel I attended was Sekou Sundiata, he read some new poems and talked a little about his process, good poems good talk. Next up was the CC panel, it was lively whith Terrance playing a little of a Devil's Advocate role. The Q + A session afterwards was dominated by a woman who was obsessed with the idea that only people with Masters Degrees got accepted into CC. She refused to be convinced otherwise despite several testamonials from CCers in the audience. The high points of the whole Ferstival for me was dinner Saturday night at Applebees with 14 other CCers. Kamilah Aisha Moon was nice enough to give me and Aracelis Girmay a ride out there and back. While waiting for our food the three of us composed a group poem which follows:

Untitled

Is it true that Shiraz is Arabic for Cabernet,
is it true that rain falls down, my heart,
is it true that words have crushes on each other,
is it true that the moon is the bottom of God's spoon,
is it true that fog rides the hill like a horse,
is it true that bluejays gossip in the trees,
is it true that poets crack questions like sunflower seeds,
is it true that the one I love sweetalked honey from the bees,
is it true that a cab will carry you through tunnel vision
to a field of ghosts pushing back into home.


This was followed by the 15 CCers in attendance writing a group poem on a piece of paper we passed around the bar.

Untitled

I have heard that dactyls dance like daffodils in a downpour,
the heart jerks jackals from the jukebox,
sinners sing the prettiest in church,
true love is the only myth we desire,
when the heart sings the eyes must close,
children ease away then come barrelling back,
the end times come only when we let them.
I have heard there is nothing to wait for, no permission to give or get,
the dead do rise to greet us in the great beyond,
our living swims around our heads like heat,
outside that window, other windows . . .
words are savages ripping meaning from this world,
inside poems, writers live lifetimes of bliss and grief.
I have heard it is true to listen to the fluttering steps
into the sound of speech when silent walls might pinch,
the things we must do call to us,
begging crisp relief in a sudden summer storm.

Pretty cool, Huh?

Dark road for miles
The moon above
Kind of Blue

PERFORMANCE @ CAFE NEMA 24 MAR 06

Attention kiddies, I'll be hitting this Friday night (24th) at 8:30 pm,with Jazz saxophonist Rene McClean and his band at Cafe Nema (1334 U ST. NW) There will be another set at 11:00. I'll be performing mostly new stuff, but also some old stuff. There is a cover charge, but I don't know how much. I can promise you the music will be top-notch. I will be performing mostly new pieces, including some which are currently posted here on my blog. 'Radio Mali American Gothic Blues', 'Man Playing Horn', 'Hush Now', 'Twelve Ways of Listening to the Blues', 'Embouchre', and maybe one of the two new villanelles. [I eat for love] is probably stronger as a poem, but 'Chant for a Hazel-eyed Hextress' seems to me like it might flow better with music. Anyway, those will all be on my set list, along with one or two oldies (Maybe Morna, since I've been revising it lately) I'll almost certainly do 'Can I Ask' from the CD, (Which I have renamed '16 Questions and a Desperate Wish') and 'The Idea of Improvisation' since it has a sax player up in it. We'll see, should be a lot of fun.

Last Trip to WallyWorld

THE MAN WITH THE BLUES GUITAR
(For Robert Johnson, after Wallace Stevens)
 
Three
 
The man [hat cocked] picked at his guitar,
A traveling-man of sorts. The day was yellow.
 
They said, "You got a [Delta] blues guitar,
Can you play things colored as they are?"
 
The man replied [cigarette dangling], "Thangs as they are, Is colored different on a blues guitar."
 
And they said to him [Bible-eyed], "But play, you must,
A tune outside of you, but of yourself,
 
The [Gospel] truth on your blues guitar,
Of things colored as they are."
 
Six
 
I can’t paint a picture quite square,
Although I stroke it with much care.
 
I don’t sing a man's shined shoes, gold tooth
or new suit, but his eternal soul,
 
I eye him as well I can and conjure
Him up with my mojo hand.
 
When I pluck him up, moody as the moon
Not sunlit like things as some say they are,
 
It’s a serrated howl traveling through
these fingers what pick a blues guitar.
 
Nine
 
A tune colored (as we are),
Yet somehow blued by the [moaning] guitar;
 
Ourselves [softly] humming as if in tune,
Yet nothing changed, except the place
 
Of things as they are and the notes
As he bent them on the blues guitar,
 
Played just so, the chords of change,
Heard in a damned juke-joint;
 
For an eternity damned, the way
The howl of hellhounds sound where
 
Even the hand of god is haze.
The tune stops time. The blues [thusly plucked]
 
Become the crux of things as they are,
The crossroads at midnight on a guitar.
 
Twelve
 
Are these [Hellhound] blues his?
His devil of a delta guitar
 
Fills the [smoky] juke-joint with dancing women
In thrall with the moon. The yellow-eyed men
 
Of the women are now [dark] blue, and coming
For his [middle-parted] head that never lies
 
Alone at night. He picks a string of dilemmas.
Can he change the tune as it is? And how,
 
As he fingers his frets, can he
Escape that note which echoes
 
unlike an [eternal] resolution and yet,
Must be. Could the Blues be anything else?

THE MAN WITH THE TRUMPET BLUE

Still on our theme of dissing Wally S. (Man Carrying Thing), or if one prefers "engaging the validity of his ideas" I like this piece, it started out as one of those 'let's just mess around and see what happens' type things and then boom, it kind of came together. I got really, really lucky with this piece. It's the type of poem where you don't know quite what it means, but you know exactly what it means.

Man Carrying Horn

A poem must entice
the sense almost mysteriously.

Illustration:
A noir figure front stage
Entices the open eye.

The muted horn he plays
can entice the most dumb ear.

Sense them then, as key

(notes almost perceived
as known melodies,
uncertain notation
 of certain chords,

the roots full of doubt,

notes floating like the last of Autumn Leaves

on a soft breeze that could last all night,
on a key breeze of cobalt notes),


A seduction of sensation
now deeply perceived.

We will bathe
In this seduction all night,
while the dark mystery

stands back-turned on stage.



(For Miles Dewey Davis
after Wallace Stevens)

Thirteen Ways of Playing the Dozens

If you know my work, you know there's a couple of poems where I have beef with Wallace Stevens (Monday Poem, The Idea of Improvisation), there are several reasons for this, but at least one of them is that I'm not a big fan of his work. I respect his technical facility and ear, but all that 'jerking the poem to the left until it turns on itself' bullshit gets annoying after a while. He's also one of the few major American poets who was openly racist in his work (he titled one poem 'Like Decorations in a Nigger Cemetery') Anyway, I don't get mad, I get even, this is my riff on his famous Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird


(This poem is of one mind,
like a crayon box
in which there are
twelve blues.)

Anyway here's the piece:


TWELVE WAYS OF LISTENING TO THE BLUES

1
Along the guitar's six strings,
The only moving thing
Is the hand of the Blues.

2
I am of two minds,
Like a blues
Which makes you laugh,
Then cry.

3
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and the Blues
Are one.

4
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inhalations
Or the beauty of exhalations,
The Blues harmonica moans.

5
Bottles line the long bar

With exquisite glass.
The spirit of the Blues

Fills them, bottom to top.
The sound casts
Intoxicating spells.

6
O Snowmen of Hartford,
Why do you imagine blackbirds?
Do you not see how the Blues
Caress the collarbones
Of the women around you?

7
I know sassy women
And joyous, laughing rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the Blues is involved
In what I know.

8
When the Blues flow out of earshot,
They cause a rising tide
in many rivers.

9
At the sound of the Blues
In a district of red light,
Even violinists of the symphony
Would smile openly.

10

He rode through Mississippi
In a boxcar.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The moan of a passing train
For the Blues.

11
A bad moon is rising.
The Blues must be playing.

12
It was midnight all evening.
It was raining
And it was going to rain.
The Blues colored
The clouds.

To Live Forever

The sure path to poetic immortality is to write one great poem that everyone remembers. Much, much easier said, than done. Is it better to be a mediocre poet and write one great well-known poem or be a very good one, who only poets know?. I figure the villanelle is a good form for writing memorable poems, since they have musical song-like qualities and there aren't many great or memorable ones in English. Hey, it worked for Dylan Thomas. So I'm gonna keep hitting villanelles and try to get lucky and knock one out of the park. Plus, I find them fun to write, since it's a lot like solving a puzzle for me. The trick is to write the last couplet first and choose fertile end words (at least 15 rhymes available). Spend as much time as possible on these two lines, making certain they use vivid imagery and can constitute an argument. Then write the middle line of the first stanza, once again making sure the last word is fertile. You have then written 8 of the form's 19 lines. The rest is like solving an equation. Anyway, here's today's attempt. I like it more than the first, I'll certainly have a lot of fun performing it. The current title is OK, but I may change it if I can find the perfect one.

WHY YOU NEED TO STOP EYEING THESE FRIES

Some eat for love and take the tasting slow
The feel of food for them contains the treat
Salt and sour, bitter or sweet thus grow.

Who gulps champagne or swallows swift Bordeaux,
Is wine so special, meals cannot compete?
Some eat for love and take the tasting slow

A haste in chewing some will never know
Swiftness of tongue serves up desire's defeat.
Salt and sour, bittersweet thus grow.

A leg or thigh incites some eyes to glow,
What seduces like a marinated meat?
Some eat for love and take the tasting slow.

A luscious meal enchants with smells she throws
The caught aroma makes the tease complete
Salt or sour, bitter and sweet thus grows.

Food fills by going where it has to go
Some rather Morsels danced from cheek to cheek
I eat for love and take the tasting slow
Salt and sour, bitter and sweet thus grow.

PEBBLES FROM A ROCK GARDEN

Hello boys and girls, more haiku havoc;

summer drizzle,
ferns on my windowsill-
browning

mom plaits girl's hair,
melting in the midday sun-
a jar of hair grease

moon in the window
I tip-toe to the bathroom-
cat's eyes in the hall

Winter morning-
the telephone poles wear
white caps

August heat-
a breeze swishes
the basketball nets

Radio Mali American Gothic Blues

Yesterday was a sad day for art lovers the world over, seeing the passing of both Gordon Parks (photographer, filmaker) and Ali Farka Toure (musician). Being a poet, I dealt with my sadness by writing a poem. I was in a villanelle flavored groove, so that's what came out:

RADIO MALI AMERICAN GOTHIC BLUES
(For Gordon Parks and Ali Farka Touré)

Tell me once again, how the learning tree grows,
Do its roots burrow all the way to Timbuktu,
If its leaves shade both lensmen and griots?

Malcolm X in his fury, “The Greatest” in repose,
Even Beggars in Paris your eye did not refuse.
Tell me once again how the learning tree grows.

The source of the Sahara was a river you composed,
In the heart of the moon flows a branch of brilliant blues.
Do its leaves shade both lensmen and griots?

Now your limbs sag, with the weight of many snows,
Still your shutter sings on with moonlight as its muse,
Tell me once again how the learning tree grows.

Baobab, your gray bark nurtures poetry and prose.
Niafunké was wailing when your falling broke the news.
Do your leaves shade both lensmen and griots?

Black and shining are the feathers of a thousand crows
Who alight and fill the sky with their darkening news.
They show us where the roots of the learning tree go,
If its leaves shade both lensmen and griots.


Notes

The word 'griot' is a rhyme word in this poem and is pronounced "GREE-o." American Gothic the photograph will probably be Gordon Parks most long lasting visual legacy. 'The Learning Tree' was Parks first Hollywood film. 'Radio Mali', 'The Source', and 'In the Heart of the Moon' are CD titles by Toure, Niafunke is the name of both a song and his home village in Mali.

HUSH NOW

So I did it, finally after 10 years and a million revisions, my manuscript of poems "Still Life" is finished, done, completo. This isn't the first time that I thought I was through, but it is the first time I knew it. Special thanks goes out to all the publishers who have rejected it over the years, thereby giving me a chance to polish it to its current level of sheen. Of course it's just going to keep getting rejected, but I don't care now. I know that I've done everything possible to produce the best poems I can. Now I can start working on the next one. I should have at least three by now, but hey, I'm lazy as hell and write slowly to boot. Below find the last poem that need substantial revisions, I may do more work to the MS, but it's all just touch-up now. The main coats have been brushed and rolled and are drying as we speak. This is one of the few poems I have written where everything is true. Enjoy;

HUSH NOW, DON’T EXPLAIN
(for Muskie and Dee)

Under a sapphire ceiling,
the three of us walk west
on Constitution Ave.
At 19th St. we become
black threads weaving
through a quilt of white tourists.
You and Denise ask me
what I remember of the war.
I recall in black and white,
helicopters swarming like locusts,
two men emerging from a jungle
bearing a bandaged comrade.
A Buddhist monk wrapped in robes
a warmer orange than
the flames which engulfed him.
I was barely old enough
to understand the flame's finality.
Our conversation fades as
we approach the book of names.
It says Robert Louis Howard,
Panel 22W.
You say Thua Thien, June 1969.
We round the corner
to the headstone of an era,
find an eternal funeral.
Who knows if the sudden hush
is reverence or shame.
Roses, wreaths and carnations,
bright as fresh blood
lean against the stone,
heads bowed.
A legless vet rolls by,
the eye of his camera blinking furiously.
The name sits
thirteen lines from the top.
The tallest, I’m drafted to make the trace.
I square the paper
shading to reveal a shade.
As I hand you the ghost of a name,
the arithmetic hits me.
The summer of ’69
found you in diapers.
All you’ve had for a Dad
is a folded flag,
and a Sergeant’s smile
on a curling Polaroid.
Slowly, the reflecting pools
of our eyes fill.
Trembling, you pose the question
that vexes still. Why?
We walk to the benches
trailing teardrops.
Denise hums a balm
as we huddle and rock.
Below us, three tight-lipped
bronze soldiers.
Above us, a flag spilling
like blood down a bayonet.
Above that, an August sky
almost blue
as the tremor
in Denise's contralto.

I don’t usually explain (or try to expand on) my poems, but this poem is different for me. It’s (obviously) about the first time I visited the Viet Nam Veteran’s Memorial, with my cousins Denise (Hugs and kisses, wherever you are) and Rob (What up, soldier?). I had lived in DC about 15 years at that point, but had never gone to see this particular memorial. I had once tried to go see it, but didn’t realize that unlike all the other monuments, it isn’t visible from the street. So I wound up going right past it and never finding it. Then Denise moved here and we started hanging out and one weekend Rob came down from Connecticut to hang out. I think my mother may have told me that Rob’s father had gotten killed in the war, I’m not sure. Anyway off we go, we took Rob to a couple different places on a mini site-seeing tour first and were all having a great time. We were laughing and joking as we walked down Constitution Ave from the Washington Monument. None of us had ever been to this monument and didn’t know what to expect. If there is anyone foolish enough to doubt the power of art to affect folks in the most powerful of ways, then just take them there and that will end that nonsense forever. The combination of the sculpture, the natural setting and the way the people interact with the monument, creates a very spiritual and moving experience. I was pretty composed until I handed the first tracing to Rob, after I saw the expression on his face, I started losing it. I fought tears all the way through the other 3 or 4 tracings and by the last one could barely see. When we went to the bench and sat down, I cried like I never have, before or since. And Denise just held us, two grown sobbing men and hummed that song. For me part of it was sadness, part guilt. I harbored a tremendous amount of animosity towards my father (See Silent Night or Father, Son), but at least I knew him and had spent time (some happy) with him. I felt bad for Rob like I’ve never felt for anyone. That day was a real turning point for me, in terms of putting things in perspective and beginning to deal with my own issues. I had the stuff about my Dad in earlier drafts, then took it out. I’m not sure if the poem is completely finished or not, but I can live with it as is. We’ll see

For XXXXX (Who may or may not have hazel eyes)

I have always loved Dylan Thomas' famous villanelle Do Not Go Gentle, and have always wanted to write one. So I finally got up the gumption. It's tough. But here's my first attempt, not too bad, I don't think, but hopefully I can do better in the future.

CHANT FOR A HAZEL-EYED HEXTRESS

You see through skulls like they were cellophane.
Your eyes skip past skin, penetrate mere bone
and decipher every wrinkle of my brain.

You visit every room a mansion can contain
And know each hall or door as if your own.
You see through skulls like they were cellophane.

You spy the speed and angle of the rain,
calculate equations still unknown
and decipher every wrinkle of my brain.

Other women stared, but they all stared in vain
They could not comprehend if they were shown.
You see through skulls like they were cellophane.

You scan every angle, rule every plane,
Plotted all the paths my flights have flown
and decipher every wrinkle of my brain.

You sip my private thoughts like a champagne
squeezed from every grape I’ve ever grown.
You see through skulls like they were cellophane
and decipher every wrinkle of my brain.

Loop the Loupe

Woke up again with the jeweler's eye, it's amazing, I look at my poems and can spot flaws as easy as a puddle of cat piss in the middle of the kitchen floor. However, I'm just about out of old furniture to refurbish. Anyway I wrote the original draft for this in under 10 minutes on a dare from Terrance Hayes, but would up actually writing something almost decent. Even though I was try to prove a point about how easy it is to write certain kinds of euphonic nondiscursive poems. So I cleaned it up and gave it more of a through-line. It's still got a fairly high level of difficulty, reading-wise, but I think will reward a careful reader who is willing to delve a little deeper than just the surface. But who knows, I could just be on crack. Anyway, this is the first (and so far only) poem in my series on Pittsburgh Jazz musicians.

EMBOUCHURE
For Roy Eldridge

A king in French, if not in France,
before the Penguin’s nest razed your realm
who ruled the Hill District's haunts?
Lacquer-lipped, monarchic,
you embraced hot brass, allowed no mill
to steal your wind. Hawkish notes,
Dizzying in their height,
dove through the ear's atmosphere.
Almost aortic how a little Jazz
flowed from the four-chambered nautilus
swinging hemo around the globe.
Still, your role royale was low-down,
gritty as homemade gravy, your lips
buzzing the brass ring in truly cerulean style.

17 Haiku

Once again, it's all about capturing a single moment's perception that contains some kind of contrast. Only Haiku must contain at least one image from nature and a 'word' that clearly indicates the season. Japanese Haiku of course, must have 17 or fewer onji, arranged in a 5-7-5 format. But JH are written on one line, since 5-7-5 is a normal onji distribution, even in prose. An onji is different than a syllable (the word Haiku has three onji since in Japanese all the vowels are pronounced, but only two syllables in English) I try to keep my Haiku under 15 syllables, but generally don't employ the 5-7-5 structure, since it makes little sense in English. Enjoy:

Spring breeze
my wiper blades fill-
with cherry blossoms

on the sidewalk
only the mailman's footprints
part deep snow

starry sky-
tip of the incense flickers
falls

summer morning
my finger traces-
the cool headstone

September 1st-
the goalposts cast
a longer shadow

Cold night alone-
a mug of hot cocoa
is not enough

shelter at midnight
a drunk softly pissing-
the next bed

moonrise in the windshield
sunset in the rear-view

Spring darkness
a garbage truck grinds-
the chirping birds

behind the Carry-out
steam rises-
from yellow snow

shards of glass
beside the stare
of a stiff deer

May 29th-
only sunlight fills
this classroom

New Year's morning
the birds chirping-
too loudly

August night
police chopper drowning out-
the crickets

rainy night
alone in the darkness-
with All Blues

frost on the window-
under three blankets
I aim the remote

beached boat
beneath the worn planks-
a seagull's cry

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day?

I was feeling in the mood for a Shakespearean Sonnet, so I pulled out an old attempt and Damn if I did't still have the jeweler's eye. Gotta keep rolling til it fades. You never know how long it will last. Anyway here goes;

What Begins with the Period at the End of the Question.

I had just kissed Lisa ‘bye, was chilling
on the Johnson's steps halfway up the street.
Ronny and his brother Ray were swilling
Miller Lite and talking under the beat
of a rhyme rocking the radio. When
the Chevy squealed the corner, I could see
wild eyes squinting from the backseat, then
I thought they might be narrowing for me.
A pistol punctuated, so I ducked
behind a tree. Did my collar get caught?
I felt something warm, saw bright drops, went "Fuck"
but the ground got all wobbly. There was hot
breath asking, "Joel, you alright?" Then a crack
in my skull widened ‘til the world went black.