Permanence

While writing an article detailing 
tombstone thefts in my hometown, 
a poem memorializing a delusional heart 
refusing to accept its fate of 
of solitude found its way onto my screen. 


Death recognizes its own.


I struggle these days not to cave inwards 
while performing menial tasks like listening to 
female voices singing, watching couples staring 
at each other while eating in poorly chosen cafes 
where waitstaff keeps asking if I'll be dining alone 
and shutting my phone off before I attempt to sleep
so I can convince myself the reason it doesn't ring 
isn't because you aren't reaching out to me, 
but because I'm trying to conserve energy.  


Lies told to self save the spirit from dying.


Leaning against the wall in a dimly lit club, 
glass of ice water held by numb fingertips, 
a woman leaned in close enough that the scent 
of her hair spoke promises before she said to me
 "I've seen you before, but been waiting 
for the right moment to speak." 
I opened my mouth to respond, but my breathing
stopped until the choke of your smile released its grip, 
again parted my lips then and replied 
"I'm sorry you wasted your time" 
and took a sip of water. 


The cold was no match for what was within.


I heard that drinking alcohol makes you forget the 
ache of loss, the pain of imagining the one you love
making love to someone new, so I stopped drinking 
wine so I wouldn't be tempted to pretend this is only
temporary like all the times before.


Permanence comforts me these days as nothing else can.

MISUNDERSTOOD PRAYERS

My accent has never been indicative
of the location in which I was raised.

My tone inflections have lead others
to mistake my identity, at times
even my ethnicity, until such
time as they laid eyes upon me.

So perhaps when I prayed,
God didn't recognize my voice,
confused me with someone else
or the droning noise
of a demanding world
discomposed his comprehending,
as it seemed he confused my plea
for a "happy ending," to mean
each time I loved, I would
invariably thank God
it was "happILY
ending."

Certainly God could not have thought
that I prayed for this solitary
existence, that what I desired as
that happiness spanned such a short
amount of time. Or perhaps God
thought he knew my mind better
than me. Though I focus on
introspection, I've never really
got comfortable with myself
internally. So maybe God put
his plan into action rightfully,
without my consent nor my
approval.

Or perchance God didn’t want to
be responsible for my downfall
from grace or wrongfully thought
my heart was invincible, but his
faith in my strength was misplaced,
as I truly am not that strong.

They say you shouldn’t
question God’s plan,
but I confess, sometimes
I wonder if tales of his omnipotence,
failed to take into account that God,
like so many others,
simply didn’t understand
my accent.

ONE PIECE OR TWO

Looked up from the pan of fish
I'd been up frying until nearly 3am
to ask if she wanted one piece or two.
But before I could smile, she said
"I can't stand bitches like you,
thinking we need for you to save us."

I looked down at her two sons,
about the age of my own daughters
and back up to eyes filled with disgust,
trying to diffuse the situation
and asked if she'd prefer to get it herself.
Turned the tongs backwards & reached out,
and she slapped them out of my hand.

"See, that's exactly the shit I mean. You can't
explain yourself so you just pass it back off
to me." So often we are steeped in our
own histories and too consumed by animosity
to eat what's given to us by those
who can't see beyond what they're offering.

I thought to tell her I'd been on the receiving side
of a similar shelter food line, but there are times
when trying to identify serves only to further
divide the lines between yourself and those
who are in need

So rather than turn it back to
a story about me and what I'd been through,
I simply picked back up the tongs and said
"I'm just here to serve you, so ma'am
what will it be, one piece or two?"

She bitingly asked "why can't I have three or four?
Your fat ass planning on taking some of this home
with you?" And I thought to tell her how I'd saved up
money for weeks, went without life's pleasantries,
took food from my own freezer and
cabinets to ensure a shelter with no funds
had enough to feed everyone in the line.

But the point of servitude is not
in attempting to garner the gratitude
of the people in your line,
rather it's to give selfishly and many times
there will come no time for hugs and thanks
no photo opportunities, no warm feeling
from the community that you feel led to help.

So, again, I said "one piece or two,"
as I placed four pieces upon her plate,
whispered to her "now this is just
between me and you" and winked.


She smirked at me and took her time
to move down the line,
before she took her tray
and sat down in the corner
with her two young kings
following closely behind her.

I looked from pan up to
the next woman in line
and asked "one piece or two"
and the line moved on and on.

FOR HANNAH

Oh, Hannah,

Dearest Hannah,

blessed was your fire,

stoked though

feet of eight/

darkened block/

snuffed flame

sealed your

unconscionable fate.

I inhale the soot

which marked the spot

where once your

hands held paper.

Your splintered pencil

wrote of faith and country,

love and purpose.

I choke from the

breadth of their

enmity for you.

The sediment grows thick

with apparitions

for whom vindication

has not come, as

I struggle with breaths

acidic from decades of decay.

I am reduced to travailing,

as my lungs, my heart

digest the stench

of horrors you endured.

I want to mourn for you

with peace and reverence,

but am filled with anger

that young poet so gentle

was made martyr.

They caged you, though could not constrict your spirit,

They beat you, though each hit only served to remind you were still breathing,

They raped you, yet after grown men had torn into your youthful flesh

punishing your temple for simply being Jewish,

You mustered enough strength to stand to your feet…

let your dress gape open to shame them

as you walked the camp bruised and bleeding.

But you faltered only for fleeting moments

Before again taking in hand pencil

To write of blessings and hope,

And when they knew finally

they could not break you…

They stood you without benefit of mercy,

No counsel, no marches,

No chance for reprieve

No final countdown

No media,

As you kneeled

before uniformed soldiers/

shot you like thief,

like vagrant/

young girl at war,

unable to grasp

the impact of your existence.

In those last days of

dolor and muck,

wash and ascendance,

what name did you call

but Mother, Dearest Mother,

what God acknowledged you

Daughter, Faithful Daughter/

no calvary sky darkened/

connect undone/

words not heard,

while execution

fulfilled their plan?

Who came for you,

who came for you

while your Hebrew pen

grew lonesome

for your hand,

did no one think to aide

those decedents

who now grieve

for never having read

what more you had to say?

Who failed to rescue you,

who WAS it, Hannah?

What man lacked humanity

and let your worn shoes

be stripped from

weary ankles,

after you paced in circles,

gazing upwards towards

Adonai and Mother?

Did no one come

while ashen tears

fell upon the

blemished face of man?

Who comes for us all,

when we give life for

mission, exchange

sanctuary for mortuary?

Who will rescue OUR words,

who will hear OUR pleas

for love, for peace,

what name will

WE call, but Mother,

Dearest Mother/

when the soot

fills our lungs and our

pens write no more?

Will no one come, Hannah?

Will no one come

for us as

no one

did for you?

Hannah Senesh [Szenes], (July 17, 1921 – November 7, 1944)

May your soul rest in peace.

COME THIS SEPTEMBER

Six years ago come this September
I gave birth to the youngest of my two daughters.
Angry and fully disgusted,
Depressed and filled with as much self-hatred
As my womb was with child,
I could not at first bring myself to look at her.

She came into the world not crying
Neither could I myself summon tears.
So instead, my sister held my newborn baby
Even as she held her opinions to herself.
I stared blankly out the window
Praying to God that I could soon die
While my sister stood there beside my bed
And cried for us all.

There are secrets women speak not of.
Some hurts we shovel away in holes
We dig with our silence
Until we have buried ourselves
In caskets we never hope to escape from.

Trapped in a darkness only penetrated
By the memories of penetrations
Which leave behind shrapnel in the form
Of new babies we are forced
To nurse like wounds which remind us
Of the battles we've endured and
The wars we could not win
Yet risked our lives and
Spread our limbs in hopes of doing so.

Some six years later,
I have slowly dug myself
Out of that grave
Escaped from the encampment
Of a past I can never change.
Have fought off the mentality
That male dominance is Biblical,
That I should be submissive
And only complain in written words
Upon paper in hidden journals.

But these days I am far from silent
And these days I fear not the truth.
I teach my daughters their options are endless,
So as to prevent the trials I've been through.

Six years ago come this September,
I gave life and birthed forth a change.
Six years ago come this September,
I stopped allowing men over me
To lay claim.

REVELATION

Tossed myself into shards of a lullaby
I never knew the lyrics to.
Hummed the chorus
And cried for a lonesome
I could never verbalize
Yet aptly described
In expressions unseen.
Then rocked myself until
Morning came.

Found that it took drowning,
Body swept away in the undertow,
To swallow just enough
To quench my need for compassion.

Stumbled into a stack of wood
Laughed at the absurdly obvious realization
That perhaps it was just fire
I'd been lacking all along.

Wayside friends lacking names
By which to attach memories to,
But hers, I could never forget.
Neither could I my own.

Misery slept on the pillow next to my own
Interrupting tranquil dreams to remind me
Of the realities of life I ignored
Until I no longer was able to rest easy.

Prodded me until
I found the right person
While traveling the wrong path
Drank the half empty glass
And enjoyed the clarity of
The glass for its beauty
Rather than the utility
Of The Vessel.

If I weren't alive, alone
I would ask
If water always tasted this divine,
Though I know for me,
It just never did.

SINK

I wear a cloak,
of sorts,
woolen -
gray, aged hue
a bit irritating
to pink skin
but warm to me
on frigid morn,
knelt in prayer
for companionship.

I admit
I have
whispered my own name,
eyes closed to
invoke remembrances
of lovers
who spoke it
with lust on lips.

Bodies mauled by
touches,
sunken
and thrown.

Bottled message,
scratched with
broken pencil.
Sweet contents
long since sipped
to ease
the parch of tongue,
but no ocean
to toss
the vessel in.

Filled sink,
cold water,
bottle floats.
I revel at
training
it to swim.

I humor at this,
yet continue
before
I photograph
the foolish scene.
The curves and colors
pleasure me.

PLEDGE TO OSIRIS

My palms hold within their lines
Maps with directions to find
Pieces of you which to all others are unseen
Preordained to locate 13 parts of the King.

I would use my hands to mend you
My knowledge I would willfully forlend too.
Offer my softness so to ease thoughts which trouble you
My strength sacrificed, yours then imbued.
Give freely of myself to nourish you
Then fall 1000 feet in hopes of being captured within your arms.

Would conquer every fear
Trade in society to be shipwrecked there with you
Like Sheba, I would stand in awe of you
Though never could I depart unto a land
wherein your footsteps did never tread.

And when my days were nearing end
I would pray our love would over death transcend
For the 14th part, to return to you then
Jeopardize my own eternity
Just for one final opportunity
To assuage your thirst
and be submerged
in your presence
once
again.

COLD FORNICATION

A type of madness I'm not keen to,

Crazy never spoke sensation to life.

Thought your smile a pier I could jump from,

Prayed to swim in the depths of you.

Bells splinter nights with incessant tolling,

Solemn mirrors, humbled retractions, tearing down.

Shadows tilt the scales of absolving,

Perplexed, my fingertips know not what to do.

Revelations are the ante denomination, 

Who was I to think to disapprove?

Prolonged exposure face deep in dark waters,

Cold fornication I lustfully dove into.

PALOMAS

Produce withering in the rays of a hot fruit stand, market littered with footsteps of shoppers without coin in hand. He reads the paper.


Hears Jorge García singing Sin Título. Grapples to translate the words, imagines himself into another life. Dreams of loves never had.


Weathered shoes and borrowed time. Rough hands and brown bag aspirations that never transpired. Marvels at the vision of a son with his eyes. Knows better.


No grandchildren to bequeath his stand to, nor dance with to the refrains he sings. Words don't aptly describe hell.


Touched, though never loved. There was one who shared his time, but left with heart and cash in hand. He never missed either.


Dusk settles upon the crates he taps spoon rhythms onto. Eyes water as silhouettes of puerile notions ease out of view.


Knees ache from wartime harms. Melons and mangoes are stored within walls he built with dreams. Plump orange tossed in air before put in pocket.


Theft means little when what is taken, you possess already. Dust upon perspired skin dirties a tattered neckline. Harm isn't done when the hole where heart once was is filled with song.


Lyrics are sung off key in tongues replaced by imagined scenes only.

Tomorrow will come again. And again once more.

CONVERSATION WITH MR. YESTERDAY

You say you miss me, you say you can't stand it,
Dreaming of my kisses, got you shiverin' under blankets
You claim you touch you when recallin' how I work it
But you worked yourself out of this blessing
And now you think just [cuz] you're on my cell midnight confessing
That I would retract my words? Naw baby, you're mistaken.


All that beggin' and pleading, just has me further seeing
You for who you truly are, and though you call me Hollywood
Baby, I ain't no star and I ain't fallin'
For that ish you call "just being real"
Because for real, I'm over it
and over you.

Even though you can't forget my thighs
Or the poetry I whispered to you in the night
I think you should know,
That you’re not the only man that blows up my phone,
Interrupting my artistic maneuvers at night
Begging for another chance,
Because I turned them out like lights.


Left in the dark with no explanation
Shaking their heads in anxious contemplation
So don't think you're special or that I might cave
Our short time together was just another day
On a calendar of my past
I don't remember the specifics
But I know it didn't last
So please, quit dialing those digits.
Here’s a parting gift for you, baby,
It’s a program, now get with it.

COLLOQUIAL TORMENTRY

Much as the argument between repetition and redundancy, If I were to make for myself a mental inventory 
Of the attributes that hold for me the most appeal 
Your characteristics would fail to meet vital criteria  

Yet, 
I feel entranced, 
as though 

you 

have put

a trance on me.  

You fill my senses with participles and pronouns 
Conjunctions of spirits, infinitive as to sound 
Verbal liquor I want to taste, willfully drink down 
Languishing on phrasal flirtations,  
A fusion of two minds, surprised to have found.  

Tone inflections ever linger, as I contemplate how it is 
I could be so enamored with simple adjectives.  
Whispering emotions between strings of font and rhetoric 
Though I try desperately to remain complacent  
I've resolved that it's an action of futility.  

As no matter how many sentences I formulate 
Instructing my heart to keep you at a distance emotionally,  
In the end,  
I still want you desperately. 

The torque of this magnetized poetry  
Has me in the grips of colloquial tormentry 

Yet I must admit,  
that your diction feels 

so

damn 

good to me.

NATIVE AMERICAN ASSENTATION

Condensation of spirit
Compensation for the soul.
Reparations for genocidal warfare,
Attrition clearing protocol.

Remediation hindered by lack of contrition,
Ultimate sacrifices go without memorialization.
Generations birthed forth without possession,
Bequeathed little else than feted urban legends.

Homages to the martyrs lack substantiate pacification.
Revolutionized hearts harbor guttural aversions.
Embers igniting from ancestral communications.

Come one, come all,
to the Wonderland of
Equal Opportunity Extermination!

Stand behind fences,
throwing sympathetic glances in our direction.
Mass produced dream catchers,
the souvenirs of your amaurotic vacation.

Tranquilized dishonesty controls not the whispered rebellion.
This tour has now ended,
the last stop on the visitation of Native American assentation.

LONESOME FOR THE TRUTH

In the aftermath hurricanes of circumstance
a poet clings to her words.
Divulging skeletons publicly seems absurd,
preferring to abnegate the hurt,
surrendering truths serves only to disconcert
so you whisper
your thoughts
to paper.

The line between craft and life
your heart never distinguished.
Your inherent impulse can not be extinguished.
Rejection of the gift a pursuit in futility,
like a wild animal kept in captivity,
you may cage it, but you can’t tame it.

So inevitably
the truth pours from your lips.
Your mind is the womb, giving birth from your hips
Of experience.

Your lyrical conceptions are born,
narrator and mother,
under the shield of vocabulary
you seek cover.
You hide in the stanzas,
finding refuge in the arms of poetic answers.

Oxygenating your soul,
expressions you can not control
it’s as natural as breathing.
Prose keeps your pulse beating.
Inhaling the future, exhaling the past,
the present martyr of verses so vast,
You’re forced to make a truce.
Because misery may love company,
but you live lonesome
for
the
truth.

Long Before That, I Knew Her When

Long before that, I knew her when
Knew her smile as though my own reflection
Can even now resurrect the adolescent inflections
Of the voice that haunts my resting.

Knew her before now
Back when her hips were wide with promise
And curves led boys to chase manly dreams
After her.

Knew her when first she got braids
Twisted them like knots in school boy bellies
When she winked her rare green eyes
In no specific direction.
She knew her glances left grown men
With erections she could use
to her benefit.

Knew her before her father found proof
Of her indiscretions, so when her footsteps
Came in my direction to ask for shelter
I with no hesitation took her in.

Did not know her womb would fill three times
With clinic rid, unborn children.
Did not know her full lips would occupy
Both seduction and addiction.

Just knew that she was beautiful and earthy
Thick as red clay pots drying on rocks
Soaking up heat without knowing
Sun sealed shapes can't know further molding.

Knew her before the system did
Knew her after her pastor did
But failed to realize what lay hid
Behind those long, fake eyelashes.

Long before that, I knew her when
She and I were young children.
Before she was too far gone
As I was too far away
To wrap my arms around her shrinking frame.

Before I could convince her
That her value was in more than hips and contorted legs.
Was worth more than boots and packs
More than riddled tracks upon battered, sunken skin.
Before I could empower her with truth and fact
She fell back
inward.

Long, long before that,
I
knew
her
when.

MAGIC TRICK STREAMS

I wrote his name in magic marker,
hoping to cast a spell on his mind.
His adoration not the focus of mine,
as I perceived our journey to be a path
which could eclipse reason,
no restraints to bind.

I sketched his face a hundred times,
yet the pencil failed to capture his image right.
In my visions his eyes reflected the firelight
and I could not
get that
on paper.

Slate metamorphic, rhapsodized on one side
Poetic verse devotion, loyal to the plight.

The terminal we departed from for the unison flight,
Hanger of preconceived notions,
incurable, yet contrite.

Like finding a needle in a haystack,
so convinced his train of thought was on track,
But that fallacy was derailed
The rhythm of his tell tale
Didn't beat when it was impaled

By the shards of glass
which made his crass
directives
translucent.

Like a prism, infinity reflects the light of discretion,
the symmetry of the triangular projection
holding the volume of his dreams,
right angled secession.
clarity of logic refracts the spectrum.

Now my illustrations will go sight unseen,
as I place the enchanted papers between
the pages in my journal
of magic
trick
streams.

YOU DO NOT MOVE ME

Imperious confrontation

negates fruitless contemplations.

Acceptance of frustrations,

far too many have evolved complacent.

Strength is not physical prowess,

rather it is the spirit resurrecting the prowl.

Standing in the face of aberration

the condemning of edification,

as tainted opinions

are leering down

upon you.

Yet you refuse to look at them,

for you are looking past them,

over them

and through them.

Visions seen through the reflection of your past

emblazing the very waters your soul drinks from,

as your purpose

becomes

visible.

As you recognize that "One Nation Indivisible"

does not mean that your thirst for unity

can be quenched by opportunities

to accept a sip of malice,

offered by callous

brothers who would not spit on you

if you were on fire.

And the fire that burns

from the core of your pain

ignites a fury in your brain.

Enraged, your soul exclaims

"You do not move me!"

You do not move me

with your animosity.

You do not move me

with your ignorance,

or your insufferable stupidity

or the disgusting words

you chose to describe me.

You do not move me

when you push me.

Know that

I do not just stand here before you,

I stand AGAINST you.

I do not just accept your hatred,

I thrive off of it,

I consume and ingest it,

molesting it with the truth

you can not steal from me.

You do not move me,

and you can not change me.

You can not silence me

and the silent things you are

thinking of me,

only serve to fill me

with power.

The power of unity

which you detest,

is the unity which we possess,

For this I will hold no regret.

The pressure that once pressed

against my temple

is now pressed against your hand,

as my temple

stands firm.

Though you only see

one woman standing defiantly,

there are legions of women

men and children behind me,

in support their spirits uplift me,

invoking thee

to sustain me.

So shove your idiocy,

your hypocrisy,

and absurdities against me,

and you will most assuredly see,

that

You do not move me.

For

I

have

already

moved on.

(c) T. H. 2009