One a Day in May: Spring Cleaning

[unpredictablebijou]

May #6

Sorry, Ariel

Stiff as oak
you bent for me
for a season,
But all your faces
have always been skulls.
I believed
you had fleshed me out
but you were draping me
with your father's skin like
the sash of a beauty queen.

It was not a rebirth
not a true willow bending
but merely the crack
of one limb in the wind; you remain
wood, not flesh.

Still caught in the hard spine
your warmth, your blood has leached
away and left you
formed from the outside,
a layered accretion
calcifying in drops
around your wounds.

Not pearls but knots
that warp the skin
and bend the empty core so that
you grow crooked and slow.
pressed down, you see only the worms
gnawing at your roots, the twist
of your mis-set bones.

 

[Angeline]

V2: 2008
The night dropped stars on us as if a veil
folded around the jagged scars of day.
Too dark to see your mouth against my pale
flesh settled soft around you where we lay
within the breathless murmurs of a breeze,
the curtains barely moving in the chill,
the dark where lovers meet and take their ease
to strain against the skin of each one's will.
O fallen like the apples of my breasts
to your desire. Take me here, move me
outside this vale of life where pain arrests
our joy too often to forget. We'll flee
into this petaled passion, garden soft
beating with life our wings ascend aloft.

V1:2004
The night curved stars upon us like a veil
folded over the jagged scars of day.
Too dark to see your tongue against my pale
flesh settled soft around you where we lay
within the breathless murmurs of the breeze
and curtains barely moving in the chill
hour where lovers touch and take their ease
to strain against the need of each one's will.
O fallen like the apples of my breasts
into your desire. Move me, take me
out of this vale of life, where pain arrests
my joy, too often to forget and flee
into this petaled passion, garden soft,
beating with limbs like wings ascend aloft.

 

[Angeline]

It's true, there is some amazing work going on in here. I've got some catching up to do myself, but I must say first, just trying to get caught up:

Champie, Ange is right. That's an excellent piece.

Rainy, #5 was amazing. Really, really solid. You're really good at titles too, and I envy that. I have trouble in that area.

Cerise, I'm liking all your work so far but this last one was way excellent. Tight and vivid.

And loststar, that last one was your best yet.


And an unrelated side note, just because this is maybe a place where a lot of people will see it. The fact that vampiredust got Most Influential Poet this year means that obviously it's not just a popularity contest. Obviously, what he does is high-quality work, diligent and skilled, and he's not getting elected because he's in here humping legs and being an attention whore like some bijoux I know. Kinda gives one a bit of hope for Lit in general...

And let me just remind you that I nominated him. Can't help but feel good about that.

off now to find some edits and get caught up.
bj

I was thrilled to see him win, too, for exactly these reasons. I was fairly embarrassed to be nominated and get a bunch of votes (flattered but embarrassed) because I don't submit poems here anymore and I don't even put much of my writing here on the forum anymore. The award deserved to go to a real working poet here. It did and that's a testimony to what is most respected here. That makes me happy.

 

[loststar]

day 6

I feel so destructive
____________I want to rip my marriage to shreads
________________I want to tear reason limb from limb
___________________I want to scream
________________________I want to cry
___________________________I want the heavens
__________________________________to tell me
________________________________________WHY

and
HOW

how am I suposed to go back to normal
how am I suposed to stop loving her
how can I let this go

and
WHAT

what am I going to do with these feelings
what am I going to do when I want to kiss her
what am I going to do when he comes home and our love doesn't compare

and
WHO

Who are you to me
who is he
who have I become?

 

[annaswirls]

May #6

.........

 

[champagne1982]

Day In May #7

Night of The Iguana
April 2006

Purple shadows creep up the coral
pillars and across the bed
while we lie in naked bliss,
linen twisted over hips, asleep.

Indolent in the tropic
heat, a torpor steals
along the balcony rail
with bougainvillea petals

black, in the predawn silence.
A restless shift from a dream,
forgotten amidst the scent
of limes and bitter mescal.

Oily weight decends with fiesta
rhythms falling into inebriated
sprawls against fan-cooled sheets
and bloom-scented intoxication.

Leopard moths and geckos hide as night's
last serenade stirs somnolent virgins
then drifts, with bonfire smoke, away,
on fresh breezes in the dawn.
_________________________________________

Night of The Iguana
2008

Purple shadows creep up the coral
pillars, across the bed
where we lie in naked bliss,
linen twisted over hips, asleep.

Indolent in the tropic
heat, a torpor steals
along the balcony rail
with bougainvillea petals

black, in the predawn silence.
A restless shift out of a dream,
forgotten amidst the scent
of limes and bitter mescal.

Oily weight descends with fiesta
rhythms, falls into inebriated
sprawl against fan-cooled sheets
and bloom-scented intoxication.

Leopard moths and geckos hide as night's
last serenade stirs somnolent virgins
then drifts, with bonfire smoke, away,
on fresh breezes in the dawn.

 

[annaswirls]

May #7

.........

 

[annaswirls]

such a lovely song you sing

V2: 2008
The night dropped stars on us as if a veil
folded around the jagged scars of day.
Too dark to see your mouth against my pale
flesh settled soft around you where we lay
.......

 

[annaswirls]

holy cow this poem is where analogies came for spring break
This poem could be used in an find the analogy exercise in a creative writing class.
Extra credit for the over-riding metaphor

My favorite:

all your faces have always been skulls

Sorry, Ariel

Stiff as oak
you bent for me
for a season,
But all your faces
have always been skulls.
I believed
you had fleshed me out
but you were draping me
with your father's skin like
the sash of a beauty queen.

It was not a rebirth
not a true willow bending
but merely the crack
of one limb in the wind; you remain
wood, not flesh.

Still caught in the hard spine
your warmth, your blood has leached
away and left you
formed from the outside,
a layered accretion
calcifying in drops
around your wounds.

Not pearls but knots
that warp the skin
and bend the empty core so that
you grow crooked and slow.
pressed down, you see only the worms
gnawing at your roots, the twist
of your mis-set bones.

 

[annaswirls]

Carrie, this poem has your characteristic style, but in the beginning, especially, you have shown your ability to stretch your voice. I love the first stanza here.... and the third. I think that some of the power, the kick of this poem is lost in the length, but that is just my opinion. I think this is my favorite of any of your poems I have read (and I know you have hundreds more than I have never seen)

This is edit #4 regardless of the post title

A poem inspired by the Mayakovski week of the Sleeping on the Wing challenge

Rain For A Joshua Tree
April 6, 2008

Like some antiquated x-ray machine spews
roentengens into my flesh you say it's normal
to feel this way. Normal for the earth
to shake and collapse upon itself.

 

[annaswirls]

I wish I knew what I do to create my gems. It's like sometimes success with a poem is so obvious; the theme and intent are clear as a bell yet as the writer, I can't nail down how that happens. I think this is what keeps us writing, the elusive feeling that we invent good poetry but that we don't remember what we did to do it.

Amen sister. you have to just keep on writing and try not to think too much. Some people, I believe, have a formula, they know how to write gem after gem after gem. I sometimes wish I could do this, but in truth, I am glad I can't.

I think this poem works so well, Carrie, because of it's hard truth, the lack of pretention, the putting yourself out there....you can tell that this hurt a bit when you wrote it. Labor pains.

I remember when I played piano, if I thought too much about it, my fingers would freeze. but I could not always count on it coming naturally either. hmm. Guess that is one of the things that separates me from the professional

 

[annaswirls]

Good questions loststar! You could write a poem about each one of them

Way to go keeping up with your editing! How is it going? Are you enjoying it?

Do you really not want people to point out when you spell a word incorrectly, or do you just not want to be reminded that you have difficulty spelling. I too, am not a good speller, but I always appreciate when someone points out that I missed something-- especially if it is a poem I am trying to edit.

Keep it up!

I feel so destructive
____________I want to rip my marriage to shreads
________________I want to tear reason limb from limb
___________________I want to scream
________________________I want to cry
___________________________I want the heavens
__________________________________to tell me
________________________________________WHY

and
HOW

how am I suposed to go back to normal
how am I suposed to stop loving her
how can I let this go

and
WHAT

what am I going to do with these feelings
what am I going to do when I want to kiss her
what am I going to do when he comes home and our love doesn't compare

and
WHO

Who are you to me
who is he
who have I become?

 

[normal jean]

Anna!! What a beautiful thing it is to have you back. I was getting really jealous of your current offspring How are you doing sweet friend?

Okay, I have one I need to work on, so I just post it and hack away? Yikes, lol.

By the way, thank you for your comments when this was on the thread a while back.

~~~


Six Faces of Time ( original)

I.
One face ever present,
accompanies us all
through the wax and wane
of our mortal lives.

II.
Once, I was a clock. Numbers
arranged on my uneven face.
I am six o’clock, standing
awaiting seven’s stride.

III.
Nine-fifteen once ushered in
red-face and squalling, a sister
and morning and night became
blood ties, siblings forever.

IV.
Midnight and noon are solemn
hands clasped in prayer.

V.
One day in September, time stood still
as good people fell to earth
their only escape
from towers of fire.

VI.
Seasons have no hands
but the hands of God.
I till the earth and wait
for blossoms; their fruit
and joy are jewels
that only time may bear.






~~~

Six face of time

( edited with suggestions I received when it was posted and through FB)

I.
One face ever present,
accompanies us all
throughout our mortal lives.

II.
Once I was a clock. Now
I am six o’clock standing
awaiting seven’s stride.

III.
Time witnessed me twice become
a mother, and morning and night
are blood ties, siblings forever.

( I am having a hard time fixing this one...)

IV.
Midnight and noon are solemn.
Imagine their hands
clasped in prayer.

V.
One day in September, time stood still
as people fell to earth
their only escape from towers of fire.

VI.
Seasons have but the hands of God.
I till the earth and wait
for blossoms as their fruit
and joy are jewels
that only time may bear.

 

[loststar]

I do enjoy the editing, comming back to vist poems after time has really made me realize how much has changed in such a short period of time. And yes, I do appericiate the help of others for my errors, I mainly put that line in my signature for those whom would ridicule my inability to spell. And yes, just about every question in that poem has been woven into another peom, so much my work has become one big balad, interconected with emotional strings that slither in and out reminding me that all in my life is interconected.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

May #7 and some notes

holy cow this poem is where analogies came for spring break
This poem could be used in an find the analogy exercise in a creative writing class.
Extra credit for the over-riding metaphor

*giggling* yeah, in retrospect it is sort of a mad simile party, isn't it? I do get overwrought sometimes.

As always, your feedback is most welcome. If you think I ought to send a few of those analogies home to sleep it off, let me know.

I mainly put that line in my signature for those whom would ridicule my inability to spell.

i think you'll find that people are not going to ridicule you here; they're all pretty sweet-tempered and helpful. That said, I have already told you I'm going to ride your ass about it, since I know you'll forgive me. *grin*

Here's today's edit. It's extremely silly, but really, coming up with this in less than an hour was madness, and I really wanted to tweak it a bit. For those with too much class to go slumming in those threads, this was written yesterday for Anschul's Porn Position challenge.

I'll do penance, maybe an extra edit later on. Honestly, I've thought about leaving off on the challenge for a few days just to inspire anna to hunt me down like she promised to do with people who flake out. I think it would be fun to get hunted down by anna.

But for the moment I'll behave myself. Here's today's submission. It is, in fact, rather significantly edited.


to the tune of “Ghost Riders in the Sky”

When Third Eye Sadie came to town, the men all shook in fear
Cause it was known throughout the West that any who got near
Would stagger home all traumatized and occasionally half-dead.
You never knew what sick ideas were in that cowgrrrl's head.

The men all dove under the bar when she strode through the door
They didn't mind the sticky spills that covered up the floor.
“The saddlehorn is my best friend,” the cowboys heard her say,
“But sometimes it don't satisfy, so I'm in town today.”

CHORUS
Yippie-yi ohhhhh
Yippie-yi yayyyyy
Sadie's back in town.

You could have heard a pin drop in that sleazy old saloon
When she continued, “Y'all should know if I don't get some soon,
I'll shoot this town to pieces and that's just for a start
I'll tie your dicks up one by one and take you all apart.”

It looked like doom for Weedytown til a voice came through the door
A Western drawl with such a lisp it might have worn Dior.
“I'll save your town and won't ask much 'cept what you've got to drink,
Although my name's Three Dollar Bill I'm tougher than you think.”

Yippie-yi ohhh etc.

The figure that pranced through the doors was quite a sight to see
in fuschia chaps and gold lame and fringe down to the knee.
He sashayed up to Sadie and he took her by the hand
And said, “If playin' rough's your game, then Sugar, I'm your man.”

Their demands from room service made legends far and wide.
Eight rattlesnakes, some kerosene, six yards of ostrich-hide,
a blacksmith's forge, a coffin and a full-grown brahma bull.
The barkeep had to make them Cosmos by the bucket-full.

Yippie-yi ohhhh etc.

Now what went on that night upstairs no living man will tell
But some will say that early on the people heard a yell
so fearsome and so feral that the whole town quaked in fear;
the howls of pain and sounds of whips made grown men spill their beer.

They left the room in such a state the innkeeper just cried
to see the bear grease, blood and feather boas strewn inside.
No one knows just where they went, but all the townies think
They rode together toward the dawn to paint the prairie pink.

Yippie-yi ohhhhh
Yippie yi yayyyyyyy.
Paint that prairie pink.

 

[WickedEve]

This one needed more editing than I thought. Suggestions welcome.

bullwhip rose
originally posted on lit 3/16/05

always knew god was tetched,
what with armadillos, the moon,
and günter rose.
he just flung a soul
into that baby,

giving us branches
our granpappy--
a new cry in winter
that soon wailed

into bullwhip,
god's günter
under a confederate sky,
lashing shuffalongs in white fields.

brothers marched north.
brothers marched south.
they marched past günter,

shadow in a cave,
blue ridge hidey-holes
miles from unpicked clouds,

fields now waiting for sons,
sons waiting for papa's swinging arm.
texas took those sons,
and years later:

"horses rocked us toward that bless-you place.
i bumped along on the bed
in chaw-splattered, church white.

i was hush like raw cotton,
unpicked in the sun.

suppose other wagons came
just so he could crack them aside."

old whip curls like a rattler's memory
in my grandma rose's lap.
she speaks of digging dirt,
a small grave to return it
to ready hands.


edit:
Bullwhip Rose

Always knew God was tetched,
what with armadillos, the moon,
and Günter Rose. He just flung a soul
into that baby -- a new cry in winter
that soon wailed

into Bullwhip, God's
Günter under a confederate sky,
lashing shuffalongs in white fields.

Brothers marched North.
Brothers marched South.
They marched past Günter, shadow
in a cave -- Blue Ridge hidey-holes
miles from unpicked clouds, fields

now waiting for sons,
sons waiting for Papa's swinging arm.
Texas took those sons,
and years later:

"Horses rocked us toward that bless-you place.
I bumped along on the bed
in chaw-splattered, church white.
I was hush like raw cotton,
unpicked in the sun.

Suppose other wagons came
just so he could crack them aside."

Old whip curls like a rattler's memory
on my Grandma Rose's lap.
She speaks of digging dirt,
a small grave
to return it to ready hands.

 

[WickedEve]

[...]

 

[Angeline]

This one needed more editing than I thought. Suggestions welcome.

bullwhip rose
originally posted on lit 3/16/05

always knew god was tetched,
what with armadillos, the moon,
and günter rose.
he just flung a soul
into that baby,

giving us branches
our granpappy--
a new cry in winter
that soon wailed

into bullwhip,
god's günter
under a confederate sky,
lashing shuffalongs in white fields.

brothers marched north.
brothers marched south.
they marched past günter,

shadow in a cave,
blue ridge hidey-holes
miles from unpicked clouds,

fields now waiting for sons,
sons waiting for papa's swinging arm.
texas took those sons,
and years later:

"horses rocked us toward that bless-you place.
i bumped along on the bed
in chaw-splattered, church white.

i was hush like raw cotton,
unpicked in the sun.

suppose other wagons came
just so he could crack them aside."

old whip curls like a rattler's memory
in my grandma rose's lap.
she speaks of digging dirt,
a small grave to return it
to ready hands.


edit:
Bullwhip Rose

Always knew God was tetched,
what with armadillos, the moon,
and Günter Rose. He just flung a soul
into that baby -- a new cry in winter
that soon wailed

into Bullwhip, God's
Günter under a confederate sky,
lashing shuffalongs in white fields.

Brothers marched North.
Brothers marched South.
They marched past Günter, shadow
in a cave -- Blue Ridge hidey-holes
miles from unpicked clouds, fields

now waiting for sons,
sons waiting for Papa's swinging arm.
Texas took those sons,
and years later:

"Horses rocked us toward that bless-you place.
I bumped along on the bed
in chaw-splattered, church white.
I was hush like raw cotton,
unpicked in the sun.

Suppose other wagons came
just so he could crack them aside."

Old whip curls like a rattler's memory
on my Grandma Rose's lap.
She speaks of digging dirt,
a small grave
to return it to ready hands.

Another of your best! Loved it when first I saw it and I still do. I can only think of two suggestions:

1. In the second strophe, I'd move Gunter from the second line to the first so you don't have "God's" hanging on the end of the line without its referent.

2. In the last strophe, I'd delete "it" maybe say "a small grave/returned to ready hands" I realize that changes the meaning a bit, but I like that it makes whose hands they are (God's or the whip's) ambiguous. Then again I may not have a clue lol, but off the top of my head that came to me

I love seeing these poems again!

Oh! or you could say "a small grave/she'll return to ready hands

 

[WickedEve]

Another of your best! Loved it when first I saw it and I still do. I can only think of two suggestions:

1. In the second strophe, I'd move Gunter from the second line to the first so you don't have "God's" hanging on the end of the line without its referent.

2. In the last strophe, I'd delete "it" maybe say "a small grave/returned to ready hands" I realize that changes the meaning a bit, but I like that it makes whose hands they are (God's or the whip's) ambiguous. Then again I may not have a clue lol, but off the top of my head that came to me

I love seeing these poems again!

Oh! or you could say "a small grave/she'll return to ready hands

That "it" was bugging me! And I was iffy about leaving God's at the end of that line. I hate working with line breaks. Sometimes it just works, other times it's a nightmare. I'm still worrying about shuffalongs. I put it in italics to show that I'm not using the derogatory word, but that it's something my ancestor would have called slaves.

 

[champagne1982]

I thought I'd tinker with Rain for a Joshua Tree a bit more since Anna mentioned it ran a little long and I am in agreement. However, I am ambivalent about losing some of the imagery but as upbj and others (myself included) insist on saying, I can't be so in love with a phrase that keeping it in a poem overshadows what the piece could be without it.

So, if you have an opinion, I'd like to hear it. Thanks

Rain for a Joshua Tree V3.0

Like some antiquated x-ray machine spews
roentengens into my flesh you say it's normal
to feel this way. Normal for the earth
to shake and collapse upon itself.

Two months before my insides began to rattle
against my rib cage you said that it was good,
ok, perfection but then later as I fell apart,
remarked that it was time to relinquish control

again.

My ragged heart clutched at my throat
I knew no denial would slow the insidious
scalpel from slicing away my life

again.

I'll turn my back on your wily prattle; you--
worried more about what they will think
of you than for my erratic heart; to find
solace in the eternity of Earth.

 

[Anschul]

Well, my darling, I've spent hours and hours mulling over this, and I just have to say I can't change a single word. I'm speechless. Mine is South Street market in Philly, Ninth and Christian Streets, but I've been there. The second strophe just absolutely blows me away--especially the use of the word "rapt." These lines moved me to write four lines that recalled my childhood in this place, just because I felt the words come after reading yours.

Cheeck'ns screaming their last words,
Eyes flash, feet flash, avoid grabbing hands,
Pecking fingers, scrambling, desperate,
As if they know the blade awaits.

If there's one thing I miss, it's the smell of the place. The first thing I noticed when my father took
me down to the market was the smell. Sweet, foul, rancid, fragrant, yeasty, all at the same time. But I know that this is so much more than that, because of the last strophe, which is more commentary than the rest. But I am tuned into the first part, the sense of place. Incredible.
This captures my childhood as if you were watching (but you knew that).
Poetry! Pure Poetry! Well done!!

V2: 2008
World of our fathers,
Second Avenue stories, Delancey Street,
Rivington railroad flat with murky secrets
tossed down the airshaft. The wash
that fluttered brick to brick
like damp trapped birds undaunted
by shouts across sills or the mayhem
below of ragmen and pickle sellers.

Grandmother's world, life bargained
over cabbages, the rows of pike and smelt,
still life on melting ice, cold-eyed
but rapt in yesterday's news.

Chaotic klezmer riddles. Bribes,
pilpul and pennies in the pushke.
Dances in cardboard-soles, schtetls
remade in the concrete jungle
by landsleit who polished their hammered pride
with promises of goldeneh medina.

And then. Ut azoy!

The kinder move to the Bronx
to Queens, Short Hills, Far Rockaway.
Yenkees lose accents, drop syllables,
play the letters game: Cohen to Cohn
to Cone as the world spins new yarn,
knits glory and misery from faded memory,
but the garment is uncomfortable,
ill-worn with passing years, a costume
fit only for ceremony.

V1: 2006

World of my father, my grandfather:
Second Avenue, Delancey Street,
Rivington railroad flat, airshaft,
wash fluttering brick to brick
like damp trapped birds undaunted
by shouts across sills, the mayhem
below of ragmen and pickle sellers,

old women bargaining over cabbages,
rows of pike and smelts laid out
on melting ice, waiting cold-eyed
for yesterday's news.

Chaotic music is played in riddles
and bribes, pilpul and pennies
dropped in the pushke. Life
is danced in cardboard-soled shoes,
schtetls are rebuilt by landsleit
who polished their hammered pride
on the promise of goldeneh medina.

And then. Ut azoy

The kinder haul it into the Bronx
and Queens, misplace it in backyards
of Short Hills, Far Rockaway. Yenkees lose
accents, drop syllables from names.

The world spins new yarn for the future,
knits glory and misery with faded memory
to an uncomfortable garment, ill-worn
with passing years, a costume fit
only for ceremony.

 

[champagne1982]

A Day In May #8

Rebirth
January 2, 2008

I looked at all that you have lost, and in truth I somehow
know this heart, yet beating, should bear no more pain.
Though sky and ocean seem to flood the distance, like rain,
my eyes see a shore beyond this sea of blood that now,
high mountains frame. I pray the washes of grace and love endow
sweet peace upon your heart and though long, at journey's blessed end,
greet you in warm acceptance. It's said wounds heal and bones mend.
Lie here with me and wait as the sun sets and daylight takes a bow.
Cry no more and dream your hopes anew, my love, don't show
your future that shattered past, begin to live again. It's not one
door closes but another opens. With hope's light, bright as the sun,
dry those tears, breathe again in sweet anticipation. Grow
high as treetops on mountain slopes just as summer becomes snow.
Fly your wishes into dawn, let life take you, let the wind blow.

Rebirth V2.
May 2008

I looked at all you've lost and somehow
know this heart should bear no more pain.
Though sky and ocean flood the past like rain,
my eyes see beyond this sea that now,
high mountains frame. I pray love and grace endow
sweet peace and though long, at journey's end,
greet you in acceptance. Wounds heal, bones mend.
Lie and watch the sun set and daylight take a bow.
Cry no more and dream anew, don't show
your future that shattered past. It's not one
door closes but another opens. Hope, bright as sun,
dries tears. Anticipate the dawn and grow
high as trees on mountains where summer becomes snow.
Fly your wishes into dawn, let the wind blow.

 

[Angeline]

Well, my darling, I've spent hours and hours mulling over this, and I just have to say I can't change a single word. I'm speechless. Mine is South Street market in Philly, Ninth and Christian Streets, but I've been there. The second strophe just absolutely blows me away--especially the use of the word "rapt." These lines moved me to write four lines that recalled my childhood in this place, just because I felt the words come after reading yours.

Cheeck'ns screaming their last words,
Eyes flash, feet flash, avoid grabbing hands,
Pecking fingers, scrambling, desperate,
As if they know the blade awaits.

If there's one thing I miss, it's the smell of the place. The first thing I noticed when my father took
me down to the market was the smell. Sweet, foul, rancid, fragrant, yeasty, all at the same time. But I know that this is so much more than that, because of the last strophe, which is more commentary than the rest. But I am tuned into the first part, the sense of place. Incredible.
This captures my childhood as if you were watching (but you knew that).
Poetry! Pure Poetry! Well done!!

Thank you my lansman.

My dad grew up on Rivington Street. His mom did, too. Bugsy Seigle was her neighbor and I am distantly related, on that side of the fam, to the Ritz Brothers. When I was a kid we'd go back to the old neighborhood and eat at Ratners on Second Avenue. I felt like I was getting glimpses of a dying world. It has always stayed with me. And of course some parts are still there. I still have the little "pushke for the poor children of Palestine" that was my grandmother's, my mother's, now mine.

 

[Anschul]

Thank you my lansman.

My dad grew up on Rivington Street. His mom did, too. Bugsy Seigle was her neighbor and I am distantly related, on that side of the fam, to the Ritz Brothers. When I was a kid we'd go back to the old neighborhood and eat at Ratners on Second Avenue. I felt like I was getting glimpses of a dying world. It has always stayed with me. And of course some parts are still there. I still have the little "pushke for the poor children of Palestine" that was my grandmother's, my mother's, now mine.

And it lives on. Remind me sometime to tell you my Meyer Lansky story.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

May #8

Angeline:
Bugsy Seigle was her neighbor and I am distantly related, on that side of the fam, to the Ritz Brothers.

The RITZ brothers? I LOVE them. How cool is that?

I'm going to try to get caught up.


Scening


In this
rebellious place
we shed our outer skins
and in raw muscle we find our
nature

The slap
of each surprise
we offer each other
dancing our powers in battle
wakes us.

Resist
a stimulus
or a desire, and it
comes to define you, surging up,
undead.

But look
it in the face
make it a clown, and laugh
at the monstrous things you contain
and wake

Desire
and fear are huge
til they're fit through the mouth;
they shrink, become toys, and gleeful
costumes.