Taco Tuesday

Taco Tuesday 


How did it come to this, a staple food 
belittling the tiny, sacred space? 
We have a strange way to show the good, 
by making light to show a funny face; 
we’ve popped the cherries of their fragrant skin   
we’ve sewn our oats as horses clattered 
it is so much fun, to finally let them in? 
Perhaps, that’s all that’s ever mattered? 
A taco stand on Tuesday in Me’hico: 
Catholic girls go join the boys indoors 
and learn to tease by dance when mother’s sew 
their dresses to show enough, (not like whores) 
and they all dance in moves that will mirror 
sacredness that Tuesday night shows clearer. 


r. 

Here’s a Tip

Here’s a Tip


So here’s a tip: repeat a form, and rip
It off: rehashing what we rightly write;
A chance is had and taken as you strip
The words, now something’s amiss, and not right:
The timing’s off, the beats forgot to match
The count’s is lost, (was broken with a wrench
You threw in); breaking up thoughts; so watch
And learn, we might undo this stream and drench
Our readers in flows unfamiliar;
I get it– you still want to drum and tap
I’m not about to sound similar—
You go away and add this to my rap
Sheet of verses; I have broke off the tip,
forgot the point was to shoot from my hip.


r.

Stages Of Deception

Stages of Deception


When the eyes sweep the stage, here he lies
Showing his sleeves and watching their eyes.
He’s in charge: boys and girls, come of age;
Blank, as they stare at his hands, were they still?
They Smoothened out in performance until
Ropes were pulled, seats were emptied, a doors get
Shut. You might catch him then: a pocket
Turned out, his pills are falling behind stage,
His shuffling gate, smoothed by a name he will find,
As children go home with magic left behind.

When I go

When I Go


I have never had such palpable hurt
Hearts will not dare run away from the blame;
Teaching the hardest lessons pulled from dirt,
A chisel has given the stone a name.
Though years are removed like a leaf
That quivers on a branch, absently—
There is nothing yet replacing grief—
You were laid to rest beneath an olive tree.
What have we here, a strength, a harder seed;
A small monument to soften the fall?
Memories won’t weather away just like a weed
Won’t brown with grass, and is greener than all.
You, my love will be buried and rested—
And when I go my heart will be arrested.

A wash

Along the wash, rum was worn by the naive
who clanged their cups as they soiled their breath.
As poets cut and snapped the threads they weave
pulling apart ties till just frays were left
and passed it all through their poetic sieve...

Oh, mere mortals: exchange your silly schemes  -- 

but poets will laugh and drink to your dreams. 

If I had a voice

If I made a sound, with a slow stroke of tongue

I would make it wade with the storm – 

and catch a basic
fish, calling it a carp; and furthermore, if I slipped into the bay
i'd say, “to the sea…
roll rough, roll on!”; I would learn to ride
just past the tide of younger thoughts,
we generally spoke below the roar
…I’d let it rage!

I learned to list and right myself,
I leaned both left and right,
I carried, yet, bigger thoughts
like loud passengers and then waited
For them to sleep at night.
Though, they are night fellows:
that gamble in the dark, and tear at my decking when drunk:
that ripped at loose boards
and hollered at the seascape about them
until opened sides let in the sea-wash
as seaward I leaned…

My words fed like owls perched aboard a ship;
unusually, it seemed, but spread like ghost.
They carried their weight as on sea mist, light yet heavy;
they raised with sails in the anguish of the beat of their wings, as
I labored at the masthead.

My hand dipped in the swells as
the water made webs between fingers,
Ghost owls wisely leave their perch as
the stiff breakers began to hit in rhythm:
the owl’s flight was muffled by the surf.

They didn't quite leave, though they flew
above the drifting currents
that blew the sails and set my ship further off course.
I paced the deck above the depths,
I drank like a soul burning from life.
If the sea could raise a carpenter to fix this listing ship,
and right this course; where all maps pinch
along the fold.

Eat your ego chips

Eat your ego chips that fall from off your shoulders, chipped beef smothered in self-love.

crestfallen

crestfallen crust open oven soon too often fall you you suffering soufflé.

She stirs

She stirs -- the cup brim brings smile to the lip edge.

Going down to the river darling

You  go down to the river Darling: 
The calm part, behind the old trees. 
You go in the calm of the moonshine – 
You  go where the grass blades cut 
Skin of those that willingly lie 
Here in the willow-bend. 
Where, darkling flourish, in the calm crook 
Of your waiting arms… 
I am the river Darling, I am the dark flow with 
under tides. I am calm at this juncture, 
but the river hides it's fury 
ever after here. 

Sea crushing shell

The remnants of their bodies
washing ashore in your waters--
crushed in the depths of you--
as you roll on, ever-strong.

We fought your momentum--
forwards and back and at
times ride the crest of your
emotions triumphantly.

All in vain it was, as we
fell back into the deep
of you--breaking and
flaking off into pieces.

We became smooth and
refined after many washings as
you wore us -- we would glint
in the sun when you put us on--
to only be discarded
with remnants washed away.

Tears escaped me

I read the script, it called for tears by a river 
overflowing it's banks. It had me clutching 
an old and worn and sodden teddy bear. 

It is an opening scene with little context 
given--all I had to do was cry, but tears 
escaped me. 

There was no mention of a drowning to 
make it easy, or anything, even after the 
scene--to places I flipped ahead there was 
no explanation for that frame of mind I 
was in, only a vague look of sorrow that 
always stayed close. 

There were little flashbacks throughout, 
where the audience would see another 
angle here, another angle there: a shot 
below water staring up at you, another 
of a random deer with ears up like it 
just heard someone, but there was nothing 
definite, some clues contradicting. 

I spoke in protest to this scene and its 
lack of meaning, but my only reply was 
cold water seeping into shoe. 

On the edge of forever's teacup.

It pulled then pulled me apart-- 
Black transfixed into forever--
here the standstill won't get noticed... 
at least by me: 
though you watched me fall 
into the black abyss, loosing 
all my pieces into a jumble,
I am still at the paradoxical edge
waiting for the final brew 
knowing I myself will percolate 
and the Universe will take a sip. 

Simple little man.

Simple, simple little man 
born and bred in Pakistan 
from a small world in the sun 
went to England for some fun. 
Simple, simple little man 
born and bred in Pakistan. 

As the Winter comes on by 
there's a warming of his eye 
when his desert heart could know 
warming friendship in the snow 
keep it simple, little man 
born and bred in Pakistan. 

Twinkle of the eye.

A twinkle twinkle at the bar 
as she wonders who you are 
up above you is this guy 
that would gladly bust your eye. 
A twinkle twinkle at the bar 
as she wonders who you are. 

When that oafish hunk is done 
you will sneak in for some fun 
not thinking what is wrong or right 
her twinkle twinkle made your night. 
A twinkle twinkle at the bar 
as she finds another star. 

Push away this river.

I would push away this river
that splits and pierces my side.
A crest that mounts
my shallow cliffs,
and drives a fallen branch
towards the sudden grave,
where I clutch some smooth
rocks with hands that squeeze
and move and turn to
marble white as stones
mark precipitated edge; where
swollen in the over-wash:
hands in the rinse beside
the risen banks of the
ruddy waters, their's blood
in the eye and stone in the heart.
Made that day, an ironic fool,
marking his own grave where
branches he made, broke off.

What Would I ask a Fool?

What would I ask a fool 
Under consideration's pool? 
The limping dead, the ghost, asleep -- 
wandering dread of soulful sheep. 
What of the minuscule few, 
who's dearth of reason you 
carry like a torch to the mountain top 
and turn, to those bewildered at the stop 
as if you could still go higher, 
much like the flames of the fire 
to only be quenched by the solemn tears 
of those that know beyond their years. 

Reel Hx

When the reel is playing it reforms ghost
And when a memory erased, re-rings
All the old moments you replaced, repost;

Reappear in the dusty air that clings
To those aging eyes with the glossy red
finish. You see the film, soundless she sings,

She makes the room around echo the dead;
Plainly this song was meant for only you:
The roundabout spin to the name ahead.

What of the room around this olden view?
See with peripheries the perfections edge?
I would rather wait for the reel stop, few

Are the footsteps you place from chair to wall
As you touch your lips and cherish time, so small.

Pig Latin

Truffles bring oinks -- as hard earth yields to snouts, dug up, lost to fancy French plates noses upturned by waiters for waiters...

Projectionist Manifesto

you cower in disguise and your darklight manifesto you read at the inquest -- could make a deaf man hold his ears.