Thursday, July 04, 2002 :::
So theres this beat poet I love. His book, SHE (only it has a square root symbal separating the S from the H...cool effect)- well, the book is an amazing collection of untitled works. He's got some CD's out too. I highly suggest checking him out. The only problem with posting poems here is that for some reason this blog thing doesnt let me space out poems the way they should be. It just kinda clumps everything together no matter what I do or how many times i press enter. So I'm just gonna put periods where there should be line breaks.But you'll get the idea. I know its long, but this one's my fave & its definatly worth the read:
" and she doesnt want to press charges. my yellow cousin. ghost of a gypsy. drunk off the wine. of pressed grapes. repressed screams. of sun shriveled raisins. and their dreams. interrupted. by a manhood deferred. will she ever sober? or will they keep handing her glasses. overflowing. with the burden of knowing. i never knew. never knew it would haunt me. the ghost of a little girl. in the desolate mansion. of my manhood. i am a man now. and then. i remember. that i have been charged. one million volts of change. will the ghost of that little girl. ever meet my little girl? she's one now. she must have been three then. maybe four. she's eighteen now. i'm twenty-five now. i must have been twelve then. my mother said he was in this thirties. and she's not pressing charges. although she's been indicted. and i cant blame her. i cant calm her. i want to call him names. but only mine seems to fit. 'come on lets see if it fits.' two little boys with magic marker . marked her and it wont come out. 'they put it in me.' 'no we didnt.' 'what are you talking about.' its not permanent. it will come out when you wash it. damn, maybe it was permanent. i cant forget. and i hope she doesn't remember. maybe magic marked her. lord, i hope he don't pull no dead rabbits outta that hat. whats she gonna do then? and what was Mary's story? story of a little girl. with a brother. and a couch. she's got a brother and a couch. a sister locked in a bedroom. and a mother on vacation. lord, dont let her fall asleep. her brother's got keys to her dreams. he keeps them on a chain. that now cuffs his wrists together. mummy doesn't believe he did it. but he's left footprints. on the insides of his sisters eyelids. and they've learned to walk without him. and haunt her daily prayers. and if you rub your fingers. ever so softly. on her inner thigh. she'll stop you. having branded your fingertips. with the footprints of her brother. the disbelief of her mother. and her sister. who called her a slut for sleeping. lord, ive known sleeping women. women who've slept for lives at a time. on sunny afternoons. and purple evenings. women who sleep sound. and live silently. some dreams never to be heard of again. i've known sleeping women. and have learned to tiptoe into their aroma. and caress myself. they've taught me how to sleep. having swallowed the moon. sleep till mid afternoon. and yearn for the silence of night. to sleep sound once again. painters of the wind. who know to open the windows. before closing their eyes. finding glory in the palate of their dreams. she had no dreams that night. the windows had been closed. the words of her subconcious. suffocated and bled. rivers of unanticipated shivers. and sounds that were not sleep. she was sound asleep. and he came silently. it wasnt the sun in her eyes. nor the noise of the children en route to school. she woke to the rays of an ingrown sun. fungused. that stung more then it burned. a saddened school ed route to children. who dared to sleep on a couch. exposed to their schizophrenic brother. only to wake to a new personality. one that doesn't trust. as much as it used to. and wears life jackets. to romantic relation ships. can't stand the touch of fingertips. damn, was that marker permanent? i hope she don't press charges. i hope they don't. press no more grapes into wine. because she might get drunk again. and fall asleep. Rise and Shine. my mother used to say. pulling back the clouds of covers. that warmed our night. but the fleshy shaddows. of that moonless night. stored the venom in its fangs. to extinguish the sun. rise and shine. but how can i. when i have crustied cloud configurations. pasted to my thighs. and snow-covered mountains in my memories. they peak into my daily. and structure my moments. they hide in the corners of my smile. and in the shaddows of my laughter. they've stuffed my pillow. with overexposed reels. of ABC after-school specials. calamity makes cousins of us all. and the feathers of woodpeckers. that have bore hollows into the ring of time. that now ring my eyes. and have stumped the withered trunk of who i am. i must re member. my hands have been tied. behind the back of another day. if only i could have them long enough. to dig up my feet. which have been planted. in the soiled sheets of a harvest. that only hate could reap. i keep trying to forget. but i must re member. and gather the sacred continents. of a self once whole. before they plant flags. and boundry my destiny. push down the warted mountains. that blemish this soiled soul. before the valleys of my concience. get the best of me. i'll need a passport just to reach the rest of me. a vaccination. for a lesser god's bleak history."
::: posted by Jen at 7:18 PM
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