Category: poemo
Open Letter to Americans
Dear Americans:
When you finally realize that the solution to the economy — rent and groceries (not the stock market, not your investment portfolio), to health and healthcare, bodily autonomy and reproductive rights, the climate crisis, to environmental destruction — of land, air, and water and biodiversity, to wealth inequality, to systemic racism/white supremacy, to colossal, empire-sized military and police budgets — and endless overt and proxy wars and ongoing GENOCIDE — CAN NOT and WILL NOT be found in the BALLOT BOX — blue or red,
— then what?
then, what will you do? will you hope to ride it out quietly with whatever measure of privilege you possess (white male, white adult, middle-classed, usefully employed in the systems of government or institutions of political or corporate power)?
Will you finally rise up and do the necessary-yet-awful, brave, brutal and hard work to resist and fight — like every dignified human collective across history and even today — like the Palestinians? Like the Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho? Like the Maroons of Haiti — or will you be like the Germans — roll over, fall in line, bide your time — hope they come for your neighbor or coworker instead; maybe even turn them in?
This “nation is a massacre”, it always has been
for tens of millions of people right here of and on this land — and for hundreds of millions globally — even if that excludes you and yours (for now).
Enough of this profane American existence.
Enough already.
Continue reading “Open Letter to Americans”imprint
be careful,
some, caution:
there’s risk
they may imprint on you
and never fledge
be careful,
i, caution:
there’s risk
i may imprint on you
you may imprint on me
and one day, we will know
severed skies / severed from each other
you will fly, and, i will stay
yet, we will never fully-fledge
from
the acute nourishment, the acute hunger
from the enduring gravity
of
each other
come back, come back
hummingbirds where have you gone?
ADDENDUM: the hummingbirds did come back, and as of September 8, 2024 10:00 AM EDT, they are still here.
mid-late april, optimistic
early may, expectant
mid may, consternation
meticulously,
i sanitize the vessels,
bases and perches
soaking and fastidiously brushing the red and yellow flower parts to clean them of all gunk and lodged debris
i employ two, simple, pinched-waist, glass hummingbird feeders //
there are more beautiful, ornamental, more expensive or cheaper feeders available,
but this design functions best/ i am a seven year veteran of hummingbird joy.
age-old recipe for hummingbird feeder nectar:
1 part pure cane sugar.
PURE. CANE. SUGAR.
to
4 parts water.
the end.
not beet sugar, not organic sugar,
nor turbinado, nor raw, never brown sugar
this so very important – other sugars are too susceptible to mold, to bacteria, or contain too much iron in the form of molasses.
pure, white, refined and granulated cane sugar, chemically and nutritionally, most closely approximates natural flower nectar
never ever, use store-bought nectar mix* or pre-mix*;
*and when in a store that sells that toxic shit, bury the packets or hide the bottles behind other merchandise on the shelf — just as when i spot Clinton, Kissinger, Amy Schumer, Dubya, or Sheryl Sandberg non-fiction fictions on the shelf at bookstores or big box stores — i flip that tripe backwards and upside down
so, again:
age-old recipe for hummingbird feeder nectar:
1 part cane sugar
to
4 parts fresh water,
i use pristine well water, here: i am so very fortunate: no chlorine, no fluoride just elements and minerals, no water treatment except for a sediment filter
these two simple ingredients vigorously shaken together, not stirred/
just like my homemade margarita with ice
in the same one-quart glass mason jar
i check the feeders
throughout the day
i obsess, i pray, in my own way
first incantation songs
then lamentation songs
a carpenter bee tricks my ear while i am on my knees digging in the garden
was that her? is she back? are they back?
no, that wasn’t;
no, they’re not.
i google:
“do hummingbirds return to the same summer nesting and feeding grounds each year?”
&
“how long do hummingbirds live?
Poetry vs. Poems
for [US] National Poetry Month
April 2024
many people write poems,
maybe even some good ones, maybe even a great one
but others,
they
speak in poetry
cry in poetry
illuminate in poetry
lust in poetry
revere in poetry
rage in poetry
survive in poetry
mother in poetry
love in poetry
critique in poetry
dance in poetry
inform in poetry
grieve in poetry
wonder in poetry
assassinate in poetry
expose in poetry
imagine in poetry
rebuke in poetry
teach in poetry
confess in poetry
resist in poetry
observe in poetry
exalt in poetry
mock in poetry
grow in poetry
die in poetry
&
live, and live, and live in poetry
these latter are the poets,
metaphor, verse, and prose
entangled
in every thought, in every experience, in every act, in every feeling, in every expression,
inseparable as breath and air,
whether ever read
whether ever recognized
whether ever published
whether ever paid
whether they ever write one poem deemed good by anyone — even themself
poetry
is
the breath
and blood
and milk
and spit
and piss
and cum
and tears
and wine
and water
and ink
and words
in which
poets
swim
not casually,
but as habitat.
Continue reading “Poetry vs. Poems”
popular!
the path of the hylic
she had always prized
quantity over quality
with both people and money
never interrogating
the integrity or provenance of either
never asking the hard questions of herself
nor pursuing the big ones,
now,
she’s left only with errant glitter,
an impotent wand,
a cortège of pink fools,
her plated crown of paste jewels, atop her head, askew
you see, i knew that was all distraction, decoy, masked unconfidence
home, is within your Self
so, i chose to be [come] “Wicked”,
i wear my gold
in my bones,
in my blood.
Continue reading “popular!”august the 4th
today, i proposed to a hummingbird we had loved each other in the spirit world
reunited on Earth, now, finally,
beauty, will you please marry me?
i’ll promise to always feed your dreams
you’ll promise to always come find me
i’ll be our garden,
you’ll be our wings
weeds, july
while washing dinner dishes
a hummingbird surprised me
feeding on a milk thistle
them overgrown “weeds” just outside my window
you see, it’s not just about my garden that i tend to
but the things i leave alone,
that i let go,
i let grow wild, too
i didn’t get a photo, my hands were too wet with soap
yet i really wanted you to know about this, really, to know this, about us, both
you see, we, errant human weeds, you need us too
we’ll prick your finger
we’ll quench your thirst
we’ll tell you truths
burning down
there’s no sense
in gaslighting me
i’m already ablaze
death mask
sometimes, in the mirror
she closes one eye,
pulls, spreading the skin of her cheekbone,
cheek, and jowl,
down, away and taut
to see what she’d look like
in repose
if she died
a gentle death tonight
oh, june
oh, june
she crushes me
these roses warmed in her Sun
today, tomorrow, and yesterday, at least
it’s not enough
to see them, touch them,
smell them, now
i want to swallow them down warm
into my heart
and keep them forever
soul mate
sit with me, straddle me
don’t say a word
hear my heart with your heart
let mine hear yours
look at me, into me
like a Magic Eye
until the real me comes into your focus
our definitions no longer concealed
listen to me, read me
my words are my knowable mind
come, know what i know
and be known by me
lay on top of me
our mouths open
breathe me in slowly and deeply
let my pneuma impregnate you
i want to make you the father of my art
i want to be the mother of yours
Dream Gerund: being
Arte Digitora derived from the poems: “On Doing” & “Dream Gerund”
On Doing
I have a compulsion to do.
But sometimes/often just want recline.
And the softness [and] of being. Pulled tight into a cocoon & the doing hushed out of me and filled with prairie definitions.
My untold untyped Great/lake fantasies.
Fallen grass tufts and waterproof boot slosh and plant names and hours of dendrochronology with fantas/tical idealized notions of rubbing and human collision, of being.
July nothingness would be a dream come true I close my eyes to it and do and do and do.
~ juggernaut
On July 19, 2022, upon noting the correspondence between the words “doing”, “being” and “dream” in the above poem and the published poem “Dream Gerund” both written by the same poet — I created a digital derivative work – works which I now refer to by the neologism that I conceived:
the falls
in the rearview mirror
i see it was a gift
an impromptu roadside picnic
a rendezvous along a fast-flowing river
we slip into a raft, built for two, gently floating,
taking turns describing what we see, feel/who we are/
entering rapids, our hearts racing, ceaseless throbbing/
then paddling furiously, having to steer/
and suddenly, the fear
nearsighted, you caught a life ring, rescuing yourself on a familiar and safe shore/
i stayed aboard and roared toward the falls
alone,
extending the ride, the adventure, the hope of it, all/
forcefully plummeting and suddenly submerged into dark and powerful waters
because,
Continue reading “the falls”precipice
nights
like these
i am not breathing /of/ this air
my body is here
while my face plunges through the veil
in a welcomed disintegration
in both worlds,
atomic and cosmic,
protoplasmic and mystic,
my Earth footing becomes tenuous
and i could go either way
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 