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 Jan 2018 Fred
September
close my eyes.


today, the thesaurus revealed
himself to me as
my enemy. i
do not want any words
to describe this. keep a
perfect sonnet of all
feelings felt until now.
keep everything
under the radical
complex. prescribe me a
boundary condition.


open my eyes.
when you describe something you make it simple

i hope you wake up to this. i hope i can wake up to you one day.
 Jan 2018 Fred
September
Father John
 Jan 2018 Fred
September
i pray to your temples
with every slighted
touch of forehead

"i am the scientist sitting on the pew
holding a textbook bible.
i don't question you."


i have built a
rib cage chapel
out of love and letters.
wave wave.
 Jan 2018 Fred
Tanisha Jackland
Watch me
See how
graceful I am
I make no mistakes
under your watchful eye
I am gilded perfection

just me and my righteousness
righting all the wrongs
while you watch
Me and the right moves

just don't take your
eyes off of me
or I become part of this massive
presence in the cosmos
doing soulfully wanton
and naughty things
shed light on me
and I become this
perfect
little
freak
We all pretend to have it together when someone is watching.
 Jan 2018 Fred
Maria Etre
My sky
turned greyer
as he held the
cover of our chapter
and slowly closed it
shadowing  
the sunlight
that burned its pages
with love stories
every day
together
and
a    
        p      
                          a    
                                   r            t
 Dec 2017 Fred
girl diffused
my mother told me
you christen a home
in her island-country
you take a chicken
behead it with a sharpened knife
slit it cleanly across the neck

let blood splatter untainted
earth and burn incense
let the burning bush
stink and permeate the freshly
erected walls, seep into the wood
seep into the tiling

purify it
make it your own home
somehow
somehow
i think that's beautiful
In Jamaica, there is an uncommon spiritual practice known as "obeah." In other Afro-Caribbean islands and in Louisiana, in the states, it is referred to as "voodoo." The mysticism and pantheon of gods of old permeate the historical fabric of this ancient and frowned-upon tradition.

The methodical slaughter of a chicken and the splattering of blood on the earth is believed by some to help bless the land that the home would be built upon. The belief was that the blood would purify the soil...make it sanctified. Additionally, it was also believed that in order to purify the home one would need to burn incense. My mother, when she was recalling this tale to me of the people who still do it, mentioned that she had thought of burning incense in our as-of-yet unfinished home.  No incense was burnt. No chickens were slaughtered. It is honestly done with reverence and although the slaughtering is seen as cruel by some or would be seen that way, for an ancient custom that is still respected, one of the few still practiced by some on the islands, it is seen as...a good option. Just a little backstory on the poem's origins.

Also the purification could also denote purifying one's body. As I was writing this, I thought of how we practice certain rituals to do this. We "burn out" certain toxins and cleanse our blood of impurities. We drink detoxifying drinks, hydrate ourselves with water,  go one diets, and refrain from eating certain carbs and sugars. Some of us treat our body as a home to be cleansed. Some of us do not.

I think the juxtaposition of the image of blood, earth, the death of an animal...its sacrifice for the sake of blessing a land, a home, a family in relation to one's body is interesting. My hope is that I married the two concepts together in a way that is understandable to you and that you may find a piece of my culture to be interesting. If you don't, at least you learned something new. :D

xoxo
 Dec 2017 Fred
Blake
you move like an environment,
dressing the air,
sweeping the hills.
  oh smooth dunes of your landscape,
serpents weave tunnels in your sands,
i am the snake in your glands.
the rare flowers of your hands,
touch like spring,
in the southern lands
of my longing.
 Nov 2017 Fred
Michael DeVoe
As
 Nov 2017 Fred
Michael DeVoe
As
I am as a willow in her old age
Whispering curious questions in my rustle
When the Santa Anna's blow
Holding answers in my weeping

I am as a skateboard riding pug pup
Marvelous to those who can still find novelty in a one trick pony
And those who will never meet me
Because I **** everywhere else but on camera

I am as a the coming tide
Coming in eventually
I swear
So long as the moon will let me

I am as left up Christmas lights in August
All things equal I will be worthwhile again
So long as the owners don't move
And they still like blue icicles next year
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://www.wheresheleftme.com/
 Nov 2017 Fred
Lisa
Moments
 Nov 2017 Fred
Lisa
My first kiss wasn’t with a boy I loved.
It wasn’t even with a boy I liked.
It wasn’t a dare.
It wasn’t a mistake.
My first kiss was a moment, two people in the same place at exactly the right time it made all the sense in the world but I am like swift winds. I move to fast and spread my self too thin and I let moments pass.
Because that is what happens with moments they only last a moment.
And the moment ended and time pasted and he had other moments and lived in them and I was still playing that moment in my head because it felt like I wasn’t really there.
When I asked what the moment meant to him he said, I don’t know.
Sometime I wish he said nothing or every everything, just anything more then I don’t know.
I didn’t kiss a boy I loved.
I didn’t kiss a boy I liked.
Instead I kissed a moment.
And I think I missed the moment.
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