Choice of words

Choice so obscure

Obscure mind

Obscure line

Line of sight

Line the sky

Sky that fell

Sky of poems

Poems for you

Poems that bled

Bled from soul

Bled for time

Time and laughter

Time well-spent

Spent so freely

Spent with you

You now busy

You now gone

Gone from me

Gone for good

Good things end

Good things die

Die like stars

Die so dark

Dark with despair

Dark falls over

Over my love

Over my spell

Spell is broken

Spell went wrong

Wrong was financed

Wrong plus tax

Tax my patience

Tax my effort

Effort so earnest

Effort was wasted

Wasted rough drafts

Wasted tears

Tears that choke

Tears that stain

Stain the memory

Stain the sheets

Sheets can strangle

Sheets that cover

Cover with soil

Cover a grave

Grave of love

Grave that's haunted

Haunted

Love

Let me tell you the story,

of the women in the trees

A girl,

draws water from a well

the forest, all temperate and windy in the mountains draws back

her rebozo sticks to her arms

clay pot jabs against her waist

things are done differently in the mountains

water-slick hands

dirt and masa beneath her nails

she's only thirteen

that's old enough

A grandmother,

older than the revolution

tucked herself away during the Cristero

old enough to remember when men dangled from the trees,

sits

frowning

kneading at stone

mortar and pestle

push and pull

there was no electricity, yet, not in the mountains

The girl,

her granddaughter

pours the water into the adobe lavadero

splashes her skirt a little

no running water yet either in the mountains

The grandmother,

kneading

cross dangling from her neck

on her knees, penitent flattening masa

tells her

to go get more

everything is done by hand here in the mountains

The girl,

chipped clay pot in hand

twin braids,

the way her mother used to do

does as asked

twisting and pulling

rope stinging her calloused palms

she's only a child

but she's got hands

like she's been working since she was born

A man,

wanders out of the arboles

swaying trees that break apart for him

he calls out to her

a glint in his eye

a friend, he calls himself

The girl,

she hoists up her pot

and her skirts

and tells him that he's gone the wrong way

preparing to run

The man smiles,

and descends upon her

you want this, he says

i want you, he says

it's love at first sight, he says

and wraps his arms around her

she screams

she runs up the hill

fast feet can only do so much

against a man

he catches her

the clay pot shatters

it was a different time, but we knew it was bad even then, in the mountains

he hurts her

simply

angrily

she claws and screams and bites and cries

jagged edges of clay digging into her back

The man,

wild-eyed

blood-hungry

sinks his knife

over and over in her chest

until she is more wound than girl

The grandmother,

runs down the hill

down the ranchero steps

past the chickens

past the trees

flour stuck to her fingers

shrieking the name of her child's child

he stabs her

forty-two times

they only have open-casket funerals in the mountains

her arms

are covered in defensive wounds

grandmother-skin all worn and sagged

sliced open

to the bone

her daughters,

away

what a tragedy, whispers the chismosa

stand quiet

at the viewing

grandmother and granddaughter, abuelita y nieta, laid out like wounded angels

takes two days before the viewing is over

before the Church says it's alright to bury them

their refuge is in heaven now

The man,

flees

before he can be strung up

there are no police in the mountains

The daughters,

hear

whispers,

convocations,

allegations,

of the man who did it

a slip of tongue

a twist of fate

word of mouth

he who hurts is here

this was how we did things in the mountains

braided hair, just like their mother's mother

knives belted to their waists

poised low in the trees

lying in wait

as the man,

walking home

along the dirt road

gnawed on a nectarine

pit and juices jutting against his teeth

daughters,

mother-blood hot and angry

descended upon him

his nectarine, laid in the red dirt, an afterthought

as they drew into him

and cut

I spread myself like ashes

in the dark

the warmest snow known to men,

these grey and red-colored flakes

made from the remains

of my soul,

( of my shell-shaped heart )

can you see it?

can you feel it?

tell me that you do

tell me it runs through your bloodstream

that it ignites your bones

that it paints crimson threads

between my fingertips

and yours

it's those stars that speak of flame

and dust

that love that exhales peacefully

in the midst of chaos

that sigh of relief

when the last galaxy in you has exploded

that exhale of surrender

bringing you to your knees

( multiple colored reflections

of the universe's song

vibrating inside your core

like a melody long forgotten

but forever present,

the most familiar echo

the sweetest whisper

that primal fire of the first breath

that synergy of all things that has led

me

to you )

I spread myself like ashes

in the dark, my love

the warmest snow known to men ,

I paint my bones with the black dust

from long-gone heartbeats

of Nebula's once golden tears

and the diamond longing

of all the Supernovas that came before me

their ink-dark powder covering my skin

so I can imitate the night sky

and shine

like never-ending clusters

of falling stars ,

so when I jump

into the abyss above

I will find my way to you

I will find my way to my other half of the night sky

I will find you there covered

in the same dust

skin shimmering with the softest embrace

of the cosmos that is now also mine,

I feel you now

you're calling my name

murmurning it so gently

against the loudness

that surrounds me

against the always present buzzing

of the human kind

I hear you

and my legs start running

my feet thud a rhythm against the ground

I jump

I leap

I fall

breathlessly and helplessly

into your sphere

like an unstoppable force never to be tamed

I take your hand

and our fingertips touch

the red thread connecting us

swirling

and twisting

around our wrists

gravity no longer holding it back

( like an underwater current,

so gentle in its caress )

there is no beginning to it

nore end

just a gentle string

moving to an elegant dance

a unique choreography designed

for the hearts beating

under our ribs

like pulsating drums

for the souls breathing between our scars

and hopes

like the softest

breeze of a summer's night

my sky whispers to yours

home is here

home is now

home is with you

I loved his whole essence.

The reflection in his bright blue eyes.

Each time I fell deeper and deeper into his trap.

He was captivating. Held a sense of power over me I couldn’t quite shake.

I waited for so long to find someone who knew me in ways others couldn’t

I was there when he when me. But distance when I was the one in pain.

I was planning on leaving him. Planning to escape his pull.

Before I got my chance to run, he surprised me with a ring.

I soon realized this ring was my way out.

Take the money and leave the man. The words I repeated each morning.

Her love was all I needed.

The way she looked at me. Filling my heart with hope.

She made me who I was. Her gentle tone and empathic ways, made me hope for the best.

She was mine, mine to have love. Mine to cherish.

She was the princess in the tower and I was her prince.

Always there for each other. Two souls together in the pain of life.

I planned to marry her. Spend each waking moment by her side.

When it was time, I finally asked. Asked her if she would be my wife.

She was so moved, moved by my love for her. She was obsessed with me.

I will spend the rest of my days loving her. She was mine forever.

Between the myriad of advertisements

The radio doesn't rhyme

It celebrates, laments, describes,

But not every word is

So clearly designed

To fit together perfectly;

Not every tone aligned

The road blurs

Beneath the car

Like a spinning record

Around around around

Each time a different spot pinned down

By the revolving wheels

Each time a different ground

Wander far over

Unending planes of grey

Scarred by cracks and tar

The crimson-tainted orange hues

Of the receding sun

Piercing through the horizon;

Can’t see where you are

Sickeningly sweet fumes

Drifting like fog

Along the crowded lanes

Filling your lungs

Taking your breath away

Until a rising breeze quiets the dooms

Of idling too long

As the darkness rolls out from

Beyond the distant hills

From between the solemn trees

That stand witness along the red-lit road

The soft-edged neon spots that

Speckle the way for miles blur

And from the from the woods'

Long grass resounds

Cricket trills

Gas station

After gas station

Each more vacant than the last,

Their signs a glowing hand held up

Indifferently over the blackening sky

Not in greeting, but notification

Of fuel pumps and coffee

To whoever is passing by

A meter on your dashboard blinks

You look at the time

1:02 AM

Glowing white numbers

Searing into your aching eyes

You blink

And blink again

Sometime, long ago, you thought

About stopping for the night

About taking a break

But the wheels keep rolling

And you keep going

Along the endless freeway

Into the dark

Spread the banquet

in the darkened hall

and save a seat,

surely I'll be there

sometime maybe

even just

next week

give me

a moment,

to let it all sink

in,

at the vestibule

where the skins

change, aged,

by miracle,

inside, I mean

before the dishes

are categorically

due, again

for scrubbing...

I'll paint the picture

of how the gravy

engraves the edge

of the plate

like a print

escaping the scrape

of the last utensil

in a repas

that was meant

to satiate

the commission

of a familiar portrait

left, unfinished

in pressing

the thing we

most miss, on

riding the camel

of wayward abyss

into undefined

Western set oasis...

and looking back

gilded, we'll God bless,

the garbage disposal

in the drain..!

as we're moving

along

the piped dream

finding that

somehow

the dispenser jaws trap

the tarnished locks

always threatening

with an emergency call

at the plumber's office:

"what's that..!?

a major clog?!,

or minor leak?"

and among the

gray snake coils and foil

they already know

all about it

down the street,

the way

memory fades

with each Macy's

TV parade,

which

if anyone asks

was turned on

(exclusively)

for the Children's sake!

and like with pie...

there's always room

for you out there

after the decimal

for one more

random figure

to pull up and sit

in the cool foyer;

but it's no rumor

the family's getting

bigger,

even as its members

retreat in count

on comfortable

ulteriors,

the porch creaks

with the ghosts

of passing feet

that mark in time

the distance and heat

the ruler, and the rule

failed to keep

where we all

took measure

of the stock,

and the broth

that was made

long, back when...

in a steam

of our bouillon cube,

all was vacuum packed

and carefully wrapped,

from bones picked-clean

2 million odd years ago...

04.06.2024

MPC for April "till we're done" challenge @Prose

God.

____________

That is my longest poem.

Not for what it doesn't say but for which also goes without saying. That is, "all that's said" that "goes unsaid." I know this is a snarky way to make my entry to the challenge, but I wanted to make a point of how one small word can fill volumes of words in my mind. Disqualify me, certainly. But you'll never be able to memorize the whole thing or set it to music.

For what it's worth, I'm no poet,

But it was once put to me a certain way,

That I have a something for metaphor,

And now there is nothing left to say.

Though still, I could stand repeating,

One verse competing,

One tired old drum still beating,

But that, my love, is self defeating.

Failing catastrophe I think,

And for it, I'm grateful, so grateful I'd wager,

Since I don't have much to take from myself,

Being of dull mind and word is safer.

Though still, I could stand repeating,

One verse competing,

One tired old drum still beating,

But that, my love, is self defeating.

And If you've heard a Raven's cry,

And mistook it for a dream or happy lie,

I wonder if you'd ever thought of why

Such dark birds come to you to fly?

Though still, I could stand repeating,

One verse competing,

One tired old drum still beating,

But that, my love, is self defeating.

So life is very long they say,

And in many ways it's true,

But spending life a hollow man,

Can't be good for you.

Break the pattern if that's what you do.

But patterns aren't always full of gloom,

Maybe, if you'd just see it through,

No raving goodnight will loom,

and the light might rage in you.

Take a certain length

of, let's say

fiber—

of, that which 

there is never enough

in the span of human diet

and we fein check

tensile strength

of, pushing, pulling 

from index to thumb

right and left,

or taking a tooth

primitive to,

gnaw it

quick like

in a suture

of, temporary 

fit—

to be tied off

and dispensed with

like a dangling

preposition

to which proposition

of, we need 

only append—

some customary phrase

of, furthermore

or as well—

or something similar,

as to extend

the remark—

without altering

effect and continuity

of, thought

or wire

on which dial tone

depends—

the somewhere

along, the spectrum

or broadband 

of, understanding

that follows us 

like umbrage

taken, in defense

of, the long shadow

behind the hooker's

lashes

or the dalliance

that melts us

into common shade

of, divergence

and still we look 

in storybook reference

for the Guiseppi

connection

individual,

what keeps us

assembled, schooled

and attentive—

to the draft of work

we were meant,

as lineage—

to accomplish

what withal

invisibly held

strands

of, that lower

and raise

our arms and teeth

like piano keys

and animate our feet

in directions

of, or way wards

we might

question—

drawing attention,

if the public crease

of, our mouths might

speak independent

of, the projection

in the diaphragm

that resounds

with authority

of, ventriloquists

and master scripts

of, social recital

amid the wool

we are pulling

as we ready our trays

at the soup counter

where we ration

and gather

our portion

of, hallucinatory

daily fare—

while

at the back

of, is waiting

the rod and the bait

not spared with image

notes, smoke or underline

reflected in the

buoy of, water

with a smear

from the corner

of, a blurry signature

and every fading

memory mark

on paper

of, any me,

myself—

and

I

2024 APR 18

happy little trees surround

nakedness, so Bob draws

knowledge with colors that spread through the garden

an orange fire of knowing, until the people start wearing

clothes. hats grace the heads of everyone, lined like store

mannequins in dress shop windows. purple veils, pink brims,

the garden turns into shopping

malls and sky scrapers, brush

strokes turn violet fields into a gravel road painted just so

which lends itself to country drives. skinny jeans painted blue-

black, hide tired saggy bodies

until no one looks like anyone else.

the summers are drenched with colors of broken

leaves, until chips of paint flecks the canvas and the imperfections are revealed,

the fruit taken, the body discovered, the truth

like flies buzz around the heads of the many, while Bob explains god the way he paints,

how anyone can do what he does,

maybe even better.