A Different Kind of Poetry

I am jealous of Cohen

he’s 78, he’s famous, he’s rich, he’s good, he says

“Come on baby,

give me a kiss

stop writing everything down.”

I am 18, on the other hand

and still say

“Come on Kut,

write something happy, write something light, write something good.”

But nowadays my life outdoes me

when it comes to poetry

my days are becoming one by one

kind poets of kind poems, I envy them:

the days are almost getting longer

and the nights no more pretend to be heart attacks—

the bed lets me sleep all through the dark

and lets me go when it’s time -for a change-

the Bosphorus ferries wait for me

empty bus seats wait for me

the cabs without the cigarette stink

the cab drivers without the philosophy and the politics

oh what bliss

the winter

the winter properly foreshadows the spring

the sweatshirts are here

(though with a cigarette stink)

the letter is on its way

I am on my way

these brownies

baked for me?

oh my, oh my, oh my

and all I say (in Chinese) is “Qing wen, wo bu shuo zhong wen.”

but that too will change soon.

I am still jealous of Cohen

as things aren’t too good in the poetry department as you see

but you know what

it doesn’t really matter

that much

when my life is making

such fine poetry of itself

like this.

Our Lady

Our Lady of the Rosary shall know

many good poets spoke many good words

about roses and other good things

and when we strive to follow in their footsteps

her face is the rosary on our tongue

her memory bead after bead

her memory rose after rose

Our Lady of Mercy

now needs to rain upon

other bards and travellers

and teach them how one shows mercy

to himself. Our Lady of Mercy

now needs to be the steady branch

under some other tired bird,

the steady branch

under some other unsure flower bud, the steady branch under

some other woodcutter’s hand,

goodbye, Our Lady of Mercy,

thank your blessed heart for trying even though you knew

we have way too many sins to forgive.

Our Lady of Peace

we try to be in peace in her absence—

there is no anger, there is no strength

left in us to unsheathe an anger,

to unsheathe a grief, to unsheathe our hands, to unsheathe our hearts.

Peace she has taught us well, but in her presence

we swung our rotten wooden fears and swords, pretended to be at war

and in her absence now, we pretend to be in a peace

that is not the peace of a graveyard,

                                           of a borderline,

                                           of a still pool of blood,

                                                a stiffness,

                                                a silence.

When does a silence become a peace? When is longing’s edge made blunt?

Our Lady of Navigators

stands now on a deserted island

she does not wait for other sailors

but she cannot steer us now

our ships without wind, anyhow,

are but other deserted islands,

our hearts

but other deserted ships in the wind

lost in the Depth and the Breadth

without her steering.

Our Lady of Sorrows

was not a lady of so many sorrows

ere she met us, we have been to her

a gale to a naked soil

a whip to a naked back

a dagger to a naked heart

a lie against the naked truth

an us against a her

but now we are made barren, we are flogged, whipped, struck

now we are being lied to

and it is too hard to be an us without a her.

Our Lady of the Rosary shall know

many good poets spoke many good words

about roses and other good things

and when we strive to follow in their footsteps

her face is the rosary on our tongue

her memory bead after bead

her memory rose after rose

Another Saturday Night

Another Friday poetry night:

The only hands you get to take

                                                               belong to your keyboard

The lips you get to kiss

                                             that of your swollen self-reflectivity

                                             -and oh God are those some cracked lips-

The sweet voice you get to hear

                                                                is your own mind’s

                                                                and echoes within (and within and within and within)

 your own mind, dammit, and nowhere else

The eyes you get to gaze and gaze at

                                                                         can’t believe what they’re seeing in the mirror

The rain outside you’d like to walk under

                                                                                   has already soaked you

The purse you’d like to make lighter tonight

                                                                                          is already empty

The hangover you won’t have tomorrow morning

                                                                                                      seems to have already fucked you up

The words you will laugh at yourself for tomorrow morning

                                                                                  seem to be already in the writing                          

                                                                                                                               

 again.

Another Friday poetry night:

The moon

                     is in hiding.

The good lines

                              are in hiding.

The good friends

                                  are in hiding.

The good girls

                             are in hiding.

                            -and the bad ones too-

Another Friday poetry night.

You

        are in hiding, too

        but not hidden quite well enough

     

        from yourself.

The Overheard Prayer #2

now that encyclopedias and envelopes and ink

and swords and shields and wars

and maps of east germany

mock my uselessness

from the shelves

from the walls

i

now that i’m the leaf without a stem

the fire out of air

a leaf on fire

without

please

now that You are in Your arms

in her arms

in his arms

not in my

arms

You

now that I join those that i’ve hated

the man of Your past

who also hated me

and each other

and those that

come after me

in a strange

fellowship

i

the archives in Your heart

have become heavier

insignificantly

please

now that i am out of my good metaphors

out of my endless disbelief

out of my great lies

and my greater

excuses

You

i

please

You.

This Land Of Ours

In this land of ours

they would rather silence us

so perhaps this will be no more than

half a poem; but let me tell you

what happens in this land of ours:

In this land of ours

poets recite misery

politicians recite poetry

and the people recite

the names of politicians

and never poetry.

In this land of ours

poets drown

flapping their little tails

dying of thirst

lost fish on our pavements

in this land of ours

intact fingernails a luxury

a generation ago

the next generation too, perhaps:

in this land of ours

there used to be

the fascist

the communist

and the appropriate

now our communists are nearly extinct

and mostly they adapt fascism

in its various forms

and people are trampled on

in this race to be appropriate

in this land of ours

burning hearts are placed

within baglamas and lauds

and hummingbird fingers

can keep pace with heartbeats

but also in this land of ours

brains are burned—

their smoke and their screams rise

and thus our hearts

are blackened and choked

so in this land of ours

women are our women

daughters all our daughters

their virtuousness ever holy, ever in question, ever all ours’ to protect

from each others’ sons—

oh and in this land of ours

our beds are not covered with sheets

                                                 or rosebuds

                                                 or couples of all sorts making love

but with homophobia

and skeletons

and skeletons of words of love

and wives grown fat

and husbands grown sweaty

and with bills unpaid

or at best with content snores

and bloodshot eyes

and in this land of ours

it is always too late

the hours

stop not for us

-maybe for others-

and now all we can touch

is a little humid space left behind

and all we can taste

is an empire long gone

in this land of ours

no thank you, we are

quite comfortable waiting and waiting

in this land of ours

rivers flow

and men die of thirst

because we are to learn the names of rivers

(in one language and intent, mind you)

and not carry water buckets

in this country of ours

they are erecting walls on

our doorsteps

and windowsills

our birds

and our few forests

our truths

and on our mothers

and on our faiths

in this land of ours, friends,

they make gravestones of our youths

slaughterhouses of our fields

leaden soldiers of our greatest hopes

bludgeons of our holy books

teardrops of our stars

and handcuffs of our crescent.

In this land of ours

I do not matter

nor any of the others

who are doing no better than me.

Little Broken Heart

now Istanbul calls me home
to little ferry docks, to a little sea
to your little hand, to your little smile
with all its gigantic heart

but when Istanbul calls me home
it knows it calls me away from
another a home, a little home
with a little heart where I'd like to place
your little hand, your little smile,
your little you, your little heart
and Istanbul's whole gigantic heart

now you call me home
and I call me home, too,
so let's ride little ferries to a little dock
in the heart of a little sea
meet there, forget about hearts
forget about seas, forget about cities
forget about Istanbul, forget about you, about me, about home
and live off your little hand and your little smile.

2/11/2012

A No Poet

you insolent chopstick of a boy

you call yourself

a young poet

in the reasonably warm social circles

a wannabe poet

when warm humility is needed

you call yourself a fucking awesome poet

when her warmth is won and spent

and you’re in front of the mirror

but you know you are an insolent chopstick of a boy

and I know you are an insolent chopstick of a boy

and no, you’re never gonna be the best poet

just like I’m never gonna be the best poet

you who won't drop the pen

though i’m the disappearing ink:

go fight your windmills

find yourself a Sancho Pancho and a donkey

though you see in the distance that

I am the windmills

go on pretending to be a fat little Buddha

burn your heart for an incense

though you know from the smoke

I am the Nirvana

go hold her hand under the Moon

let the night cover her faults for you

though you know in the dusk and dawn

I am the Sun.

go fight the casinos valiantly

keep wearing that poker face

though you know that on every chip you win

it is my stamp that you’ll see.

but keep calling yourself a young poet

or a wannabe poet

or a fucking awesome poet

i’ve won this game

the first time you finally shut the fuck up in the night

and the wrinkles of your bedsheet called to you:

‘You are a no poet, Kut

stop imitating the old lizards.’

Now That You Are Here

***

God is alive, magic is afoot.
God is alive, magic is afoot.
God is alive, magic is afoot.
God is afoot, magic is alive.
Alive is afoot, magic never died!

God never sickened.
Many poor men lied.
Many sick men lied.
Magic never weakened.
Magic never hid.
Magic always ruled. 

from "God is Alive, Magic is Afoot" by Leonard Cohen

***

I love to speak with Leonard
he's a sportsman, he's a shepherd
he's a lazy bastard
living in a suit.

from "Going Home" by Leonard Cohen

***

mister leonard cohen

welcome to istanbul

                   to constantinople

                   to byzantium

                   to the bridges i live under

                   to the seas i breathe

                   to the domes i top

now that you sleep under one of the roofs

i probably have passed by or over or under at least once

when searching for home

  and a line about home

  but most of all for a throat and a breath

perhaps i can show you around.

you’ve been doing the showing around

for far too long.

now that you stepped on both sides

of the foundation

and the doom of this city

you should

pray in our synagogues

pray on our bridge

pray while the call to prayer and the dusk and the hills

pray with a fishing pole in arnavutköy

pray as you start a new song about

pray beside the skeletons of our sultans and our caesars

pray with me

teach me to pray

teach me poetry

teach me song

in return

i will give you another seventy seven years and three hundred and sixty three days

in return, cavafy will come, though i’m afraid he’ll be hitting on you terribly

rumi will come, whoever he is, he will come, come, come again,

byron will come, dragging along a new mistress, dragging his foot,

hank williams will come and you know what, his cough is gone,

mister leonard cohen,

now that you are here,

if he manages finally to find his grave

Federico Lorca will come

and we’ll go grab bucharest and toulon and barcelona and boston and montreal for you

bring them all here

right in front of your guitar

and your bow

we have enough room in this city
to make you a lazy bastard for real.

mister leonard cohen,

now that you are finally somewhere here

don’t go.

September 17-30, 2012

I Don't Think I Want to be Something

I’m not sure I want to

go to college

I don’t think I want to be something
when anything is such a fine word—

not that I don’t want to amount for something

at the chilly biting end

but just not in that way.

I don’t have the urge right now

But I want to be able to want to be

a sailor with many tattoos

                                       scars

                                       lovers

                                       and fake lovers

                                       and many many many filthy stories of all these

the next moment.

And how do I know I haven’t always wondered about the life

of a dog breeder

or a dog

Maybe I first need to find that monastery

that I won’t live in, and a very rich wife

and some arsenic.

Possibly I just want to live,

possibly as the old herbalist who helps the main character after he falls in the river

-just for a page to two-

maybe I really don’t want any of it

to be my problem at all.

It is probable that big game hunting

might be my calling, or maybe I do carry

a crazy cat lady inside

that I need to nurture myself into

a heavy-handed rabbi

or a shameless poet

or maybe a little bit of both, like Leonard

(Nah, forget that one

he’s just another college boy.)

but why would not my lot be

to claw at mice

or to pound tribal drums

or trample fine Aegean grapes bare foot and all and drink the wine and love the wife

or live as a herd of seahorses

with sad sad eyes

no, higher education

where they finally let you be this or that

might not be for me after all

I’m not at all ready to give up on

any of the things

I know I can’t be.

All I Do

I used to write poetry
now small talk is all I do
why this works better for me
haven’t got a single clue

I used to write poetry
scribbling on the things that I
knew the great ones wrote about
which I’d never even try

I used to write poetry
now small talk is all I do
why this works better for me
haven’t got a single clue

Now small talk is all I do
and it’s all I’ll ever want
small talk to the life I live
and to the one I cannot

Now small talk is all I do
weather reports I speak of
to those I’d die to live with
to those I just can’t kill off

I used to write poetry
now small talk is all I do
why this works better for me
haven’t got a single clue

Why this works better for me
this taking of the final bow
this end to days of tea and
conversation with the crow

Why this works better for me
can well remain a mystery
I’m no more a gravedigger
poems the shovel I carry

I used to write poetry
now small talk is all I do
why this works better for me
haven’t got a single clue

Haven’t got a single clue
this spacious obedient heart
an abandoned place you say
I just call it a fresh start

Haven’t got a single clue
if I’m now a deserter
I would much rather believe
it’s the war that’s over.

I used to write poetry
now small talk is all I do
why this works better for me
haven’t got a single clue

To the Muse

A square deal I’m looking for
but you’re giving me all the shit
thunder and lightning you frighten me with, you force
it all down my throat, you get in the way
of my sunlight but instead of giving me shade
you go for giving me pimples
and force me to write in the first person
on things I have no damn idea about
A square deal I’m looking for; but where I ask for poems
you give me this and elevator music, you are
no better than Calculus or the first girl, I want rain
and you give me back my own house
with a water cut
but I want to write something that’s not nonsense, something
about the sunset, about the girls—I would even settle for political
nonsense
I want to be Oscar Wilde, only not as pathetic
but pathetic is all I get, thank you
for your apparent nonexistence, but I won’t be fooled, you,
I will find you, and when I do, you will see
who’s the boss, and I promise you, when I find you,
I will force every single one of these twenty five lines
and my other convolutions deep down your disloyal throat
and see who is inspiring who then.

Saludos, La Guerra Civil!

for Federico Garcia Lorca, from a boy who leaves the balcony open.

I will not forgive you, Federico Lorca
For writing “If I die/ Leave the balcony open”
Not “If I die/ Open the balcony”
and making me unable
to doubt, to deny, to ask:
“Why didn’t he open the balcony
When he was alive, and let
the sun and the sweet breeze in.”

I will not forgive you, Federico Lorca
For the burning hills of Andalusia
at the time of the sunset
the silver thighs, the arches of Elvira
and the billion waltzing hearts in your poems
Guiding this little poet wanna-be as he tries
to learn how to walk within poetry.

I will not forgive you, Federico Lorca
For not jumping on a black steed
From one of your ballads
And flying away, like the night
as Sun awakes in the East,
When La Guerra Civil
came to kill you.

A Musing Before The Last Drama Lesson

Harold look at me Harold see me Harold turn your head Harold I am here come back Harold he thought. But Harold kept looking right ahead at the worn blue wallpaper. Harold come back Harold bring it back to me I can’t do it anymore I lost it and Will has been dead for centuries and Samuel is dead and Augusto is dead and Bertolt is dead and Peter has gone bonkers with dementia years ago and you are dead but come back to me bring it back to me Harold he thought. Still Harold’s stern, piercing gaze remained away from his face. The wide, ancient-looking nose still sat with the same prominence on his face, the remaining hair still had the same semi-aristocratic silvery glow and the chin still was severe, even more so in old age, all was there; but Harold wouldn’t look at him anymore. Look at me Harold Harold see me and he started weeping, punching the little wooden desk over and over again.

  It used to work. He used to be able to feel them, wear them on, take them off, change them, make them better, get to know them, understand them. The characters. He could wait for Godot as Estragon, his prostate aching, he could question that son-of-a-bitch called Stanley as Investigator Goldberg; and he could turn the entire city of Rome against that treacherous Brutus as Marcus Antonius. He could scheme, he could kill, he could die, he could be overcome with joy, he could swear revenge—he could act, goddammit. The stage was his last homely home back then. He wasn’t giving a single shit that William Shakespeare and Bertolt Brecht were nothing more than a skeleton back then. It wasn’t his concern when Samuel Beckett and Augusto Boal died. He did like Harold Pinter more than most other playwrights, that much was true; but no, no melodramatic sorrow when he died. He went on stage, performed, bowed to the melodious applause, oh the applause, returned home, drunk his late night glass of wine read a few pages of the latest New York Times Bestseller page-turner and slept a good night’s sleep. Just the same. But that was the last night he could act.

  How can one become unable to act, he asked himself for the billionth time, and yet the only answer in his mind was Just like this the words don’t come to you anymore you cannot become someone else you are stuck in this prison cell but then you are not trying to get out No I am trying I am trying so hard I am trying to get it back be able to feel again and be Ah yes all you do is look at the picture on the wall and wait for Harold Pinter to look back at you and worship a stupid pantheon of playwrights Alright then, help me, you but no, there was no help.

Adam, Thank You.

Adam, thank you.
for you did fall
below and through
and blessed us all!
No, it was not
the fault of Eve:
she was too hot
not to believe.
Thanks to your tool
other hot girls
can make us drool
with smells and curves
behind more than
fig leaves—cheers man!

Adam, Fuck You.

Adam, fuck you.
why did you fall
below and through
and cursed us all?
No, it was not
the fault of Eve
though she was hot
we all believe
Thanks to you, fool
other hot girls
make us men drool
with smells and curves
behind more than
fig leaves, oh damn.

The Word

I will whisper it all to your ears
with my mouth, and to the curves of your breasts and thighs
with my hands, or with my mouth if you like
all the secrets, all the words of the spell
all the words of the Lord, all the words
you’ll ever need, all the words
that matter, all the words
in the entire universe:
Your name
and mine—
you just have to remain under my hands
you just have to remain under my mouth
you just have to be listening
you just have to keep your shirt unbuttoned.

**



I also call this "the Three Minute Poem". Simple reason: I was given the lines "You just have to be listening/you just have to keep your shirt unbuttoned." in my Advanced Writing class and was asked to write a poem, in no longer than three minutes, making the two lines above either the first two or the last two lines. Here's the result.

And just as a sidenote, I always love to read some feedback on the poems posted here. So if you're feeling particularly kind, you can use the Comments tool at the bottom of each post. If you can't be bothered, that's also fine, your sparing the time and energy to come here and read my lines is also a wonderful generosity.

Sometimes You Drink Cold Wet Tea

You drink cold wet tea
from a porcelain china teapot
that is convincing enough a fake
you are able to bow in makeshift shame
before the friends who gave it to you
and exclaimed immediately afterwards
with severity and fervour that shook your teeth
you are not at all worth their act of kindness.

You drink cold wet tea
from a porcelain china teapot
that is convincing enough a fake
with its dragons and phoenixes intertwined
you let the good friends who gave it to you
back into the world beyond your sight
you let them be stolen, you give them away
you bless them as they go onto their pilgrimages
and become relics for men, you smile at them
pride dripping from your mouth as they become
fishers of men -and of women every now and then-
you allow them unsatisfactory kisses in little cafés
and movie theatres, you solemnly nod as they
gently give head to those that they come to see
just a bit stockier, just a bit less resolute, just a tiny bit
less fashionable and smart than the One
in drunken hazes, you pray
as they convince themselves, as they get wet,
as they get bitter. You let them out into the world
and let them be, as you ponder what sort of love
or arrogance makes you give such a convincing
fake porcelain china teapot
to one you deemed unworthy
with such absolute clarity.

You drink cold wet tea
from a porcelain china teapot that’s way too hot to hold
but still convincing enough a fake
that while the friends who gave it to you are doing their own thing
you are made sure Beijing cannot be the
polluted colourless shithole your friends claim it to be
and you know there’d be misty little rivers that sang
tea songs in your name, there’d be
rice paddles for you to work, terrace after terrace
and old Kung Fu masters who would greet you
with wrinkled foreheads and funny accents only if
you weren’t deemed unworthy and reforged into
a djinn forced to live within the teapot—

“Oh well,” is all you say
some get to see China,
and some don’t, some fall in love
with idols, some with pricks, sometimes people get drunk
sometimes they’re so desperate they don’t even
need to get drunk, sometimes
Beijing is just a shithole, sometimes Kung Fu masters
have been dead for centuries, sometimes
kisses in little cafés are remembered, sometimes not,
sometimes it’s simply time you moved on, and every once in a while
the china you’re unworthy of is just a masterful fake;
but mostly
a scapegoat is needed
by strangers and friends alike,
and “Oh well,” is all you say
you know with absolute clarity that
you were a natural born.

Sacheen Littlefeather, You Are So Good

Sacheen Littlefeather,
you are so good refusing the Oscar for Marlon Brando,
your perfect braids
you Apache vest with its beads
facing the ground, your Apache vest
with its invisible bloodstains
Sacheen Littlefeather you are so good
with your large mournful eyes, your
large mournful voice, Sacheen, in your eyes
I can see Chief Spotted Elk lying dead
amidst the winter, wearing Western clothing
which did not save him, Sacheen, how will the Earth Mother reclaim him
when the terrified Wounded Knee snow resting, no, dying on Her
embraces him so tight and cold?
Sacheen, I hear Chief Sitting Bull
converting to Catholicism in your voice
I can hear a funeral service for the Great Spirit
I can hear no hills and plains
to graze our horses, to build our tents, to track game
in your voice, Sacheen, our hearts are lost,
Sacheen, our stars are dead, our witch doctors,
their tongues ripped off, the tongue of our culture
ripped off, all lost
except for you, Sacheen Littlefeather
you are so good refusing the Oscar for Marlon Brando
who could not don the Apache vest
himself.

Sacheen Littlefeather,
you are so good posing for Playboy
your braids still perfect
your flawless naked Apache breasts
facing the ground, your naked breasts, sunlit,
lying close to the ground littered with golden daisies
all turning and writhing in the wind,
reaching out to suck on your Apache breasts
Sacheen Littlefeather, you are so good
with your walnut little feathers between your thighs
feathers that could give us all wings
that could ressurect Spotted Elk and Sitting Bull and the Great Spirit
that could be the first blessed grass
on new hills and plains we'd find
Sacheen Littlefeather, within your feathers between your thighs
we could graze our horses, build our tents, track game
but Sacheen Littlefeather,
I appreciate your sacrifice
Sacheen Littlefeather, who I wish could remain youthful forever,
you with your eyes and your voice too small in two thousand twelve,
your breasts and thighs way too large,
I appreciate the sacrifice you made, Sacheen Littlefeather,
you are so good undressing for Playboy
which could never take off the Apache vest
itself.

A Poem Is A Sweatshop

I retreat to the sweatshop
that is the poem:
First I form an expression
a face of the wife and the children waiting back home
a face of sweat and filth and coal dust and missing teeth
so that what’s inside, the sound of the chains that do not break
will remain unheard by the foreman
will remain unknown to the world
beyond the torques and the steam and the assembly line
-which is uninterested anyways- to which I deny
being a slave, to which I declare this:
All that you consume ferociously, all your gadgets and toys,
all are my sweat within the poem
and they will all return to that primeval form when
I’m thirsty and I deem it time, be prepared.

I live in the sweatshop
that is the poem:
It all roars, the air itself rolls and creaks
It all moves, it all turns, churns oozes bursts
(Day shift at the sweatshop an onslaught,
Night shift at the sweatshop an onslaught, too;)
An orchestrated betrayal from within, the world betrays you:
it has stolen from you what is within
and what is even deeper within
it has stolen from you what is within
the Earth Mother’s womb for you, and it feasts
on everything that has ever been yours so that you will
live within the poem
die within the poem.

I die in the sweatshop
that is the poem.
They undress me in a capitalist sternness
for the poem needs the clothes back,
they rub the grease off my body with a cheap sponge
and a disinterest cheaper still
both of which stain more than they clean
and they throw me outside on the industrial waste piles
piles upon piles all burning within:
Fools, they never checked my pulse once they employed me
it stops only now, after being thrown off
there was so much more they could still drain from my veins within the sweatshop
that is the poem. But not anymore.

I’ve never felt
more dead.

And then I depart the sweatshop
that is the poem
in nothing but my own skin wrapped tight around the bones
and when the sickly skin rots and the bones go to the rabid dogs who die and rot soon, too,
what a fool the poem is:
for every single letter of it I laboured over
it gives another piece of me back to Mother Earth,
that lascivious bitch, she’ll make me all sorts of things:
plane trees, strawberries, mountains, a cold stream, China, a herd of elephants

I enter the sweatshop that is the poem
a blear-eyed slave claimed to be a worker
I exit the sweatshop that is the poem
the world itself.

A Poem Is A Monastery

I retreat to the monastery
that is the poem:
First I form an expression
a face of calm tolerance
a face of condescending humility
a soundproof face so what’s inside, the cataclysm within the monk
will remain unheard by the world
of woes and victories, to which I am
as neutral and cool and moist
as a monastery wall
with my face of words
printed on water
printed on paper.

I live in the monastery
that is the poem:
It is silent in here, it is still
(The writing of a poem
an onslaught, the decision to leave it all behind and join the monastery
an onslaught too, but;)
in here the battles are all over
in here we just walk around on the battlefield
and collect our dead
and collect the dead of our enemies
and we feast on all these, so we can
live within the poem,
and die within the poem.

I die in the monastery
that is the poem:
They undress me in voluptuous silence
They rub all over my body; oil
and ointments, they wash me with their delicate hands,
they gaze upon all the places
they know they really shouldn’t,
they gather wood for me, a forest for me, for me only,
lay me on the softly on the pile
and when it is time burn me
with the fire burning within them,
fools, they never checked my pulse—
it starts only now, though, burning within the monastery
that is the poem.
I have never felt
more alive.

And then I depart the monastery
that is the poem
in an urn
and when the urn is broken
what a fool the poem is:
for every single letter of it which I wrote
it gives another handful of me to another wind
when it is out of me, it adds to me
until it runs out of letters, which it never does.

I enter the monastery that is the poem
a monk with twenty-eight teeth
I exit the monastery that is the poem
the world itself.

Uncoil

As you walk the streets of Boston, you uncoil. You slowly raise your head, you open your eyes, eyes that are no longer venomshot. You take out your forked tongue and smell with it the oceanic cold, the coming rain and layers and layers of your own skin that you left hanging in branches and embraces. You start unfolding because the knowledge that you are fresh and new overthrows the worries and the fears with a certainty like that of the venom in your teeth.

As you uncoil, you accept your reintroduction into the food chain. You realize you are not one of those unfortunate men starving to death in Africa. You are grateful; and you manage not to fake feeling guilty because you are not starving to death.

You know why you are going through this, too: Because your own body alone cannot warm you. Lying upon layers of your own cold does not give you the warmth you are looking for. The cold of New England might. The electric heater in the living room won’t. You defy the fact that your blood was supposed to be cold—you want your blood to be warm, you want your blood to burn.

Of course, you have certain weaknesses. Years of lying on tier over tier of yourself made your own smell your favourite aroma, the feel of your own skin the only one you are truly familiar with and desire and ever want to desire. You reckon you are utterly safe in your current skin and you are unwilling to crawl out of it. But you are curious. You want to smell the entire world with your tongue. You want to smell waterfalls, volcanoes, men and women of all cultures and wounds and scars. You want to slither over all kinds of places, welcoming with all your body the different feelings of all the different textures, Stone, sand, wood, skin, skin, skin. You want to leave traces of yourself all around, pieces of your own skin on top of others’.

As you remember the cheer those that so mercifully call you their friend gave for you after learning you have indeed been Cleopatra’s lover, known her bosom and kissed her breasts with your teeth, you desire more. Desiring more has been your way of showing gratitude. You know if you could live your entire life within Cleopatra or in the temple of learning in which they so graciously gave you a place and a shape, you would. Knowing that you can’t, you uncoil. You desire more, so you open your body to the world. You untangle your memories and you dreams as you untangle your bodies. You draw comparisons.

Your mother will only dream of Venice until you make her dream come true or convince her to do that for herself. Your father cannot fake a British accent. None of the companions whom you left behind, or who left you behind, it’s complicated, has ever desired the Woman of Willendorf. You are not the first one to set foot on this new world in your kin, as the memory of your paternal grandfather, a military man of submarines who now waits in the subterranean silence for the Day of Resurrection reminds you. Nevertheless, you are the first to conquer it. Neither will you ever wait for a day of the resurrection—you realize you are probably the first person in your kin who will not do so. The first disbeliever. Maybe one they you will tempt Eve to eat the fruit of the tree, too. You must stop feeling good over such trivial facts, but you don’t, because you know you should not. The ghosts won’t handle you and uncoil you; but they can’t stop you once you prove your supremacy.

As you walk the streets of Boston, you uncoil. You know you’ll have left the man of your life in this time zone and shatter your own in a few hours; but you can return. Your head slowly touches the ground, your entire cold body moves and unravels its length. You have no idea how large you are, how far your body could potentially extend, how far you can go before the spike that was nailed through the tip of your body to pin you to the ground prevents you from going any further. You think you feel your agony drives the spike up, you think you can defeat it and force it out through your flesh, you think it’s worth it, you think you are not too distant relatives with lizards and can actually make the tip of your body –which you think might count for a tail- fall off. Or you’ll do something else—you will find a way.

You know you are led to believe you were cursed from birth and you are immovable and you should seek the comfort in your own body and in the spike; but none of it matters now. Taste and smell the New England cold. Drive your belly through the streets of Boston. Desire more. Extend, reach out, dream of the thousand jetlags that you hope to have. Uncoil.

Almost Free

i cannot possibly have as much time left as
i have already wasted, yet you are
so much less imperfect than I ever was

but now they are about to let me free
out of the Tower of London, out of Alcatraz
my days having to please Queen Mary of Scots
my days having to please Al Capone
and all the other fucked up power figures
within iron bars: over—

My arms and legs unchained again,
my brain unwashed,
my brain so dirty.

i can now cure all my pimples at once
or blind every single eye on Earth for that matter,
or go live alone in a Saharan mirage.

i can learn to waltz now,
i can wear the bolo tie,
play the clarinet, eat olives, love you,
flow with the River Nile,
go with the wind,
return with the birds of passage

and now that i am almost free
i want you, i want the ocean
i already want you back.

i cannot possibly have as much time left as
i have already wasted, let me take your hands
and set you free too, let me take you on a picnic

in my (deformed) line of sight,
my (damaged) train of thought
or

my (semi-monastic) home,
where I compare none of my imperfections
to yours

and where all my imperfections are allowed to remain
absolutely unrestrained.

I should be writing an Advanced Writing essay now. In fact, I should've written that Advanced Writing essay weeks ago. In fact, to the Abyss with the Advanced Writing essay.

When you have to write the poem, you have to write the poem.

The Gazelle's Gaze

Your eyes
are not huge
they are not an emerald green
are not an ocean blue
are not a raincloud gray
your eyes are not huge—

Your gaze
is not a gazelle’s gaze
it does not pierce me
does not cut through my heart
does not spill my blood
and drink it up.

Instead your glance
falls upon my body
falls upon my soul
falls upon my ideal self
like a single autumn leaf
its color the softest red
its arms wide open
-its fall so slow, so unharmful
you think you might injure it
with your own gaze, you think
it rejects gravity-
and when the soft red leaf reaches the soil
against a backdrop of Mount Fuji
Mother Earth moans in pleasure
as if touched by her true lover
on just the right spot.

Your gaze
is not a gazelle’s gaze
it is not unforgiving
it appreciates
it gives me the most clear shave
it ties my ties
it is a hand upon my shoulder
a hand in my hand
I don’t have to look at it
through a mirror
I don’t have to worship it.

Your gaze is warm,
your gaze is good
its only misdeed is that it terribly confuses me
with all its merciful qualities:
This is not the way
I have been taught.