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