birth comes slowly
with slow peeling of caterpillar skin
tough and thick
butterfly waits beneath
with iridescent wings
ready for the get-away
this death *****
but it has to happen

On a golden bedding
Spread for you by June -
Silken, fresh tedding
Beneath a sluggish noon .
Ah! Your fragrant silhouette
In a blink of my eye!

But we are in the winter
Now,
The time to surrender
To the stories that unfold
Of the children and the old
Adding cold to cold
Around a hearth of clay

As I look through the window pane
I glimpse a scarlet tourist train
Across the scintillating snow
Coloring the leaden no-show
That shut him out from the rainbow.

Oh! Your fragrant silhouette
On a summer wheat show!


© LazharBouazzi, January 21, 2018

on the puke and blood painted
walk in front of a Juarez *******
sat a blind mendicant,

his cup half full with pesos, pennies
and a grand FDR dime or two

beside him a cur loused in lassitude,
perhaps the personal, impotent Cerberus
for this den of five dollar iniquity

sixteen I was, an acute expatriate
from a drunken El Paso house home

free to roam the streets of old Mexico,
so long as I didn't wake any Policia
or **** on the wrong curb

an empty belly and nascent love of drink swung my moral compass
from wobbly to dead down

and I filched the eyeless beggar's blue tin

he couldn't see, but the jingle jangle of his coins sliding
into my pocket filled his old ears

"ladron, ladron, cabron, " he screamed

thief, thief, *******

his words trailed me down the alley into an avenue of neon noise,
until I slipped into a bar, nouveau riche

my ***** was better than a buck so I ordered two beers
and a double tequila

feeling fine until I smelled the dung of the dog,
scribed penance in the grooves of my Keds

olfactory justice for stealing from the blind; a small price to pay
for the riches of drunkenness, the sweet taste of oblivion

(Juarez, Mexico, 1965)

I split open
        right down
the center of
   my lit-up blue
                of throat,
gutterally lush
        into deep green
tumbled brush
forest heartwave
zipping straight
between the sloping
landscapes of *******
as the heavens
          take me in,
                temper my
weathered blasts
of tempest
that have thrown me back
unto the wall of ether
Impacting through
the fibers of time and
spatial relativity,
the poisoned burns
along my spinal chord
                   crackle
with the scent of sage
and a
savory-flavored wisdom
of a more enlightened age
Yes, the time
for cleansing has come
and, as electricity
trips off my energetic crown
I can only see hazy
                         ribbons of
                   purple light        
          becoming
       one large
             sea of dreams
                        fully expanded
It is time
for visionquest and
I must make ready,
arms taking in the world
preparing for
silent battle
wordless in whisperings
yet ready to howl
           
I sit back on
my haunches
eyes on lookout
heart alight
in licks of green fire
my weapons hidden
my eyes that of a child
ever soft, pliable
ready for all to happen
and I must gather
my own children 'round
like a she-wolf
surround them with the
            timeless protection
                          of my breath
               as ancient spells
re-alight in the sparks
and a wispiness, like smoke
envelopes my being
By daybreak,  
         my old soul
will align
and dance with
           all the new
        I can
possibly
muster
or even
       think
to  
     bear

I took rest on the river road
by the big Platmann place,

two stout stories, white pillared and regal on this prairie

envy ate my gut most days when I passed:
a fine car, servants and the like

today though, was curiosity stirred in me
since what I happened to see, was a giant
red-tailed hawk, splayed and stuck to an outbuilding, entails dripping

an avian crucifixion, I was told

after the raptor snatched up the Platmann's tabby

the pet was not saved, by prayer or the screams of the young lass who called the cat Matilda

though a handy shotgun brought down
the bird before it reached the stand of trees

(where it would have had its furry repast)

only winged and not shot fatal
the hawk was dragged back to the shed

where a knife slit its gut, and a fire forged hammer and three penny nails did the rest

the skies did not darken, nor did the sacrificed call out to an invisible father

'tis not the way of hunters, nor their prey

I did tarry a while and wonder, if a child's eyes saw this rapacious red reaping,

or knew of the dumb desperate need for a blood cleansing

We can grind our teeth
down to weathered tombstones

together.


Bound by love and sadness,
here we are
the rearguard of the desperate and the anxious -
holding hands
before an ocean
made of all the brakelights in the world.

There's no one I'd rather ignore warnings with
than you.