We were more patches than pants even our cats had holes in them from the BB guns and abcesses which regenerated themselves using tongues as sharp as the underside of wild berry leaves, all of life was an abrasive yet it kept us from going soft on the outskirts. Back then with our brother's jeans rolled up to our knees we stood and waited for the socks to be darned, we stood and waited for the time to pass, we stood and we waited and we stood and our shadows left traces

The Night Won’t End: Biden’s War on Gaza | Fault Lines Documentary

Unraveling the Fabric: Gaza's Impact on Western Civilization

Delusion Talking to my children this morning, the children that have seen three invasions, three escapes, three traumas.....well none of that can compare to this in Gaza. No but when it comes to tasting that bitter boneless cake we know exactly about the texture and flavor. Even Israel knows it well and have it as a creed: Never Again. The one thing I hear often on the few newscasts that I pay attention to, so accustomed I've become to this ongoing problem that appears to descend from the battles of brutal Assyrian kings...I notice when they ask, "who is going to rule Gaza after this is over?" I don't bother answering because afterall, it's a script and a TV screen. I have spent way too much time shouting at those actors who go home to their lakeside properties in windy cities with mass transit, arriving home to martinis and fettucine. Who are they to ask questions when it is the case that they work in front of butcher shops for the butcher selling knives? Why are they even asking? Do they expect a response or are they scheduled to give one? It is no secret, I have the answer. Are they trying to pry it out of me? They know I know the answer, they stare at me all day feigning ignorance. Memory. Memory is going to rule Gaza. It always has.

Ode To Rocks

In pockets and gardens, under
our beds for miners carry
a fair share in long gray
pails with jugs of soup
near shanks and flesh
with crusts plus those
stored in the chests.
The spare parts of the world
cast about pose a craving
as deep as the ocean is long
as the rivers are wide. A record
of perennial harvests hauled
up from stopes through gob-shite
on ladders of iron out the Judeah

the William Jennings Bryan, Red Jacket,

Cole and Cambell

the Eagle Eye Nagasaki to the north

Beloved fountains of slag
pour into banks of remains
where genuflection pays
paper for gold and time with loss.
Poor men fair well in shifts,
forever on the way in or out
with dirt clinging, dirt in love
with the heroic skin, part
ancient shroud part, let me in.

 Time stood still 

The devil had Frankie on a string

Prancing and grinning in the light

of the flames.

Epiphany of Ending

-“No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon [money, possessions, fame, status, or whatever is valued more than the Lord]." - some guy called Matthew

No longer time for real brain 

each touch and switch the antenae twitch

peculiar sound fed into the hand-held

of a dear Pavlov fact-checked inkblot.

I could not put my finger on the special

tinnitus, between gunshot and door slam

used for both hunting and for gathering

yet I heard it, there it was and determined

in true lie-detector fashion,

         the hulking cabal

of our five literal senses produced

yet a sixth, the one I had hoped for

and knew existed:  Eureka!

En la frontera and re-membering

the fundamental block-chain

of the ages Stone to Iron to Data,

how many arthropods it takes

to get to the center of the helix

in state-of-the-art Osterizers

-this last purification hurt

but I've said that before.

Audience of One

I am asked sometimes, "do you still write poetry?" Sure, when there's a poem to be written. Most of the time, there's something to "be done" and if it's the laundry, then I do the laundry. If it's yard work, I pull some weeds. I am fortunate to have a husband that understands the artist in me and he encourages me to do whatever I see fit. We had a conversation not too long ago....we've been married now for 43 years give or take and he's never been under the illusion that I'd be some kind of straight up wife type (but if you hum a few bars I'll fake it). I said to him that sometimes I wish I was like real artists and poets and had dedicated more energy to publishing (photos, poems, etcetera) and I realized (total epiphany, the kind that you always said but didn't really believe but then you say, wow That! yes!) ...that being a mom, a wife, a cook and "chief bottle washer" was just as important and allowed just as much creativity to flow as anything else. Of course, like all art it can also be done poorly and without craft or enthusiasm.

I read this morning somewhere or someplace (on the interWEBS haha) that someone local said a poem doesn't exist until it is published or read out loud which could be said about anything that one wants to share....like a lovely cauliflower stew or a collection of lovely, well-tended pieces of pottery (made by someone else...and I finally purchased and constructed a console table to show off my collection, took me four effing hours to put that thing together). You do want someone to taste and feel the pleasure of the meal, to enjoy the cleanly swept front porch, pee in the shining porcelain receptacle of the Gods. I do not believe that another person is very much interested in how that toilet ended up so miraculous or how the poem was constructed line by line in order to insure that the reader stumbles over the words

"I am

-pretty too"

in order that they should be led, misled and then led back into the thought process with special trickery. And sure, I can give you a recipe for cauliflower stew but I cannot teach you to how to cook anymore than I can know if you like cauliflower. In other words: my standards and preferences as any kind of producer of any kind of work are what matters. It's all that should matter to anyone who is serious about any thing.

I take great issue with the type of self-absorbed mummery involved with a statement like, "oh until it is published it doesn't exist". I sense that the person who said it was trying to say "something important" because, well. People expect poets to have some sort of special power to issue decrees and such.

I decree: when I eat my cauliflower stew, I'm much more interested in how that stew makes ME feel inside, how important that hint of seven spice really is to ME ME ME. I'll sit there the next day with a bowl of leftovers and just languish in the glory of my creation..... albeit if someone else likes it, that's good too. Same for poetry. Any artist who truly understands their own production knows this and by knowing it, has conquered the biggest critic of all: themself. Mean Joe Green a former mentor that I used to interact with quite extensively taught me this, the idea of a poet's "audience of one". He also coined the phrase, "Look, a war all about her." (after the incursion in 2006). It was perhaps the best gift I ever received from him and sadly, continue to receive it now as Gaza is being leveled. The sad gift that keeps on giving.

This little ditty was written in 2006, on 16th Terrace/Center and won a little prize and honorable mention in a group that no longer exists called the Interboard Poetry Contest. Back when message boards and in particular, poetry critique circles performed surgical interventions on poems for other poets and probably destroyed some seriously pristine and honest work. It is one of the last times I ever bothered to submit a poem (save for.a stint of sending things off for $5-10 entry fees and receiving in return, rejection after rejection and saying to myself, if I want to give away five bucks, I'll send it to a Monrovian scammer instead...at least someone might eat 2 oz of macaroni instead of 1). That summer I read the poem "To Beirut" at Central School. I dressed in BHS school colors and had pom-poms (I dreamt of being a cheerleader way back in high school)...the poem features the Fight Song Onward Bisbee Onward Bisbee yadayadayada which, I actually sang to the audience.

Yeah, I still write a poem here and there but more importantly, I am happiest when I make something magic out of nothing. Like a kid with a magic wand, no one else has to believe in magic or for that matter, like cauliflower for me to know that as a human being, the Creator thought pretty highly of us humans, perhaps thought more of us than we even think of ourselves. We were created with free will and the ability to use our intellect in ways that dumbfound the rest of us and even, ourselves. We are given hearts and eyes and ears and taste buds if we only knew how astounding that when the Creator created us, the Creator said:

..even better than the angels.

Sure wish some folks would wake up to that human responsibility right now.

The Song of Bob

-MSwaid

(for Fred Tarr and the Radio Room)

The love affair with stangers began

with morning glories between us, Bob

went to work at the prison at 6:30

as the birds performed their last songs.

He quieted Sarge, Berry and Coco with biscuits

before he left with his radio

on, yet they started barking before

he reached the first stop sign.

I want to be his wife forever they thought,

I thought and we kept barking,

as we chased his car for all time in our minds.

Bob talks to his ex 1500 minutes a month,

he doesn't seem to mind the cost of his past tense.

Why didn't you just stay married? I am

pretty too behind this fence made of chain-mail.

Twenty-one years is all he says

from the screened-in back porch where he keeps

his old partners, ex-police dogs, his detritus.

It is as if 21 years is the official

Americana. There must be one

hundred morning glories from me

to Bob, outflanking the trees

choking them slowly. Bob wants me

to be his wife forever, waiting in my war

torn house next door so he can get home

from prison to say goodnight and wake up

again to say good morning all over.

I am the last sweetheart in town.

We Had No Shadows

-Happy people in a happy world.  Wallace Stevens, Auroras of Autumn

In the beginning we put the sun

up 

in the corner and the grass

a green line across 

the bottom of the page

and a house. The house had

a window, a door

neither could be opened.

There would be a flower

or two or three or four

until we tired of the trying

after the yellow one broke.

Everything was there,

everything that mattered:

beauty, rest, warmth, food, safety

perhaps a God that showed

the 19 fingers outstretched 

and at times

there would be a bird

an M hanging 

a whole big flock of Ms

and at times the rain

shot-fell like sticks

through the air

impaling the hard won star

which wasn't a star

which wasn't the sun

however convinced we were.

 The age at which suddenly becomes suddenly

the light changes and they, the siblings, 

the parents turn to ash and ghost, 

their mementos carry pieces 

forward to balance helix

 on fingertip

scenes 

and clips

meant 

to exist 

only

for 

a 

while 

in

last

little 

drips.

The Creator

When the matter of free

will is abolished,

when all are dead,

evolving into stone

and then, iron,

Will we then understand

even the most finite

change in the wind

was perceived?

Will we then know our own superiority

as living things in a world of stimuli

daylight, moonlight, oven light?

We will understand at last,

the minutiae

of making bread, the notion of the yeast

reproduced and extinguished.

Like

Comment

 The Lease

The pentinents seemed to rush toward the aisle.  Father Pepe was at the head of the church waiting to delicately lay the wafers on their tongues, tongues too mean to be forgiven.  The insurance agent must have been in the line and when I met him downstairs in the rectory, he anxiously told me his lease with us was still in force for three more years.  He left the rectory without bothering to greet any of the other parishioners as he likely knew little about them, the insured who probably paid premium after premium. Hopeful to never have to claim on anything. Insurance is a nasty business and agents either go fishing alot or wear dull dark suits and pop up at church rectories univited.  His rather demure looking wife who looked to be over 70 must have sat quietly in the car waiting for him to run in and lie about the lease to the woman who sublet the space from him.  She came to me a few minutes later saying that I told him that she had to pay him now...a full year after having purchased the building. 

I wondered how many minutes from the church to the lie?  I hope to meet him again. Very much so now. Just hope it isn't his funeral because I'll have nothing to say.

 The Silent Night

Was there once upon a time

when angels were created

before man, before djinn

and then tested? Was there

once upon a time

when they thought

they had it licked

all their batting averages

1.000 to the 10th power?

Allah created Gibreel

before the rest of us,

all the angels, all the djinn

to serve as witness:

time and time again

sworn to secrecy

honest to a fault

willing to take a newborn's

soul from his love lorn mother

if told to do so.

Gibreel did it,

never gave an inch

nor flinched nor balked.

It was necessary

because later on

when Gibreel had to talk

to a virgin and convince her,

Gibreel had to come with some

sort of proof that he wasn't 

just some Adonis or other

bon vivant. To prove

that the very long line

of heredity was about to change

and change for good.

Gibreel has been through the all of it

the thick of it, the ups and downs 

of it. Gibreel wept at long absences

between round trips

saying to the prophets

each and every one of them:

"I missed you so much friend."

But, once upon a time

there was nothing but angels

and stars and night and angels

would not know a lie

because lies did not exist.

26.3.06

Bound to Happen

I thought I was just pretending
all along, saying well, that's
bound to happen and it does and I say
well, that's bound to happen.
We all know that when we leave
the room, the room disappears.
We've known it since we were born
and sometimes we talk about it
with strangers knowing full well
that once they leave
all secrets follow
into the ether or the dark,
same thing and who can tell
time as it passes
when you are asleep,
the clocks looking you over?
It is a strange statistic
and one I am fond of until
it comes to the war zones. concentration camps.

 The Ris(i)k of Grief

Forgive me for seven minutes

of your time, repentance for the hours

leading up to the manifestation

composed as it were of signs

each one in a sequence as if

a spiral began where it ended

instead of toward the center

from which it formed, or 

did it begin before 

it was named and it was numbered.

The Higgs Boson 

This is no ordinary fatique,

looking through the posts 

about Fenton glass, microwave cookware

and sheets through a storm

of boxes and happy birthdays.

 At the same time they were 

carrying your father

from the house to the cemetery

 you scalded yourself with a cup of boiling coffee.

 I'd been warning you of such a mess

for a long time but you insist

on refusing condolences,

 treasuring your sweet secret another day.

As you open the cash drawer/

over and over tomorrow and the next

day and the next, please

think of the pain on your knee.

 Think of the time laspe world

in which we live, in which

fathers and sons try their best

to run the experiment backwards.

 I think a new widow reminds me

of a bride, I think your father

scolded you at a distance 

last night as you screamed out.

 Life is this super collider

and as they lifted his coffin

a bit too quickly, the atoms

and molecules rearranged your DNA.

Sayuri's Joke 

 In fact there are ten 

thunderwords in the honey 

stomach of the bee, fifty million 

partisan donors a day regurgitate 

each to each a brilliant-bronze 

breast milk to cure the cud. 

The baby tells me they make it from scratch.

Sayuri's Joke In fact there are ten thunderwords in the honey stomach of the bee, fifty million partisan donors a day regurgitate each to each a brilliant bronze breast milk to cure the cud. The baby tells me they make it from scratch.

I must accept the permanence of confusion,
the intractable weapons of chaos
or rather, it is the case that death
is the goal, the long lasting aloneness
that I crave, the only respite from years
of service to the systems,
the good mornings, the how do you dos
all of that professional courtesy
and whitewash burying the past
in vacant memories.

I want to tell you dear that I am in a permanent state of confusion now.  It is accompanied by frequent episodes of nausea.  The criticisms are so perpetual that they have become not only a way of life but an expectation of same.  I have nothing to be ungrateful for and this compounds a kind of sadness in which the futility of happiness is coupled with the never ending thoughts of losing each and every thing.  One at a time.  Like teeth. 

The numbness.  Oh the numbness is there.  Somatic or otherwise, it is similar to being a two legged dog or even more crippled than that. 

You never really admitted to anything.  In fact you have formulated a brilliant scheme to force me into the trap of agreement and complicity.  I know how you do it.  That's the worst part maybe, I know exactly how you do it.  Inescapable if you ask me and lord knows, I have tried.  Tried to kick sand in your eyes and then felt the sorrow of cruelty.  Perhaps you know what that is by now but when we played the game with a child, I knew for certain you had no desire that compels the rest of us to lighten up.  He sat there blinking.  Just blinking and wanting to run away.  I know that feeling. How I know that feeling.

I love you still for whatever it is worth.  If I wasn't aware of certain facts, I'd not bother to stick around to make sure that you understood that but as it stands I do.  We have a name for this in my line of work and it's called 'seriousness of threat.

So is this the slow way?  I hope not and it is that small glimmer of hope that I must hang on to.  We all do.   All of us that struggle to wake up each day and march a little further.  I just feel I am marching in a thick and bottomless pit full of decades worth of mudslides. 

*adapted from a conversation with Darla Whitehead..years ago.  She was coupled with an ornery example for sure.  I only met him once and that was perfectly enough.

Psalm 2023

I imagine there is

no laughing left

in Turkiye, maybe

a little smile on

the outskirsts of

Byzantium, remember

the Bosphorus got the blues

as it split Asia from Europe

yet I imagine there is

no laughing left

in Turkiye, maybe

in Beirut tonight

the assassin holds

his cell and calls

his handler once more

and dupes a grin

yet I imagine there is

no laughing left

in Turkiye, maybe

the elephants in Ceylon

believe the end is near

and stare blankly

towards Java and Haiti,

Chile, Hawaii, Alaska

The. Great. Rift. Valley.

yet I imagine there is

no laughing left

in Turkiye, maybe

the souls of New Madrid

are restless and recall

months on end when

the earth smiled

ear to ear

again and again and again.

Yet I imagine there is

no laughing left

in Turkiye, thy rod

and thy staff and thou

shall not want.

All reactions:

5Bisbee Bodega, Raghida Khouri and 3 others