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"parcels" poems
The Story by Kamal Nasser translation by Michael R. Burch I will tell you a story ... a story that lived in the dreams of my people, a story that comes from the world of tents. It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror. It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees. Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels. It is the story of the suffering ones who stood waiting in line ten years, in hunger, in tears and agony, in hardship and yearning. It is a story of a people who were misled, who were thrown into the mazes of the years. And yet they stood defiant, disrobed yet united as they trudged from the light to their tents: the revolution of return into the world of darkness. Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser. Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by booby-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people. Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
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Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
Translation of "The Story" by the Palestinian poet Kamal Nasser
The Story by Kamal Nasser translation by Michael R. Burch I will tell you a story ... a story that lived in the dreams of my people, a story that comes from the world of tents. It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror. It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees. Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels. It is the story of the suffering ones who stood waiting in line ten years, in hunger, in tears and agony, in hardship and yearning. It is a story of a people who were misled, who were thrown into the mazes of the years. And yet they stood defiant, disrobed yet united as they trudged from the light to their tents: the revolution of return into the world of darkness. Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser. Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by booby-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people. Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
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So ends the Drama locked into your Bronze Nike kisses you and shows you her Womb Who, despite Angry Lads, live Life's Beyond Now Married are you to Testimony I guess you will survive the Afterthought Of Promos and Parcels you will not Resist The Wheel turns again; And in your Forenaught Honest Advices refuse to make a Fist You have this Resume of Deaf-Record, Partial to Characters you do not Like Even if they ask Penance for your Accord Your Self-Righteousness slaps them in-spite. What's the use? Your Friends will come to your Defense Even if an Ant like me Stings to make Sense.
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Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
SONNET TRIBUTE SUNDRY - FIFTY - TOM DALEY
One is seemingly more impressed by the less endowed or blessed when somewhat incapacitated and borderline inebriated; the monstrous unconscious disregards the likelihood of fathomless undergarments in other dubious departments. Disregard the random blotches or the involuntary discharges instead revel in model tonsils and almond shaped parcels the comets of multi-notches like a strange attraction for disheveled carpets. The blossoms of toxins a libation ensemble almost near horizontal each movement a bent nozzle like a prehistoric Narwhal dancing like a jackhammer with the elegance of a cement mixer a broken leaking fissure seeping vapid glamour and indecipherable grammar. The paraphrased clichés and communiques of praise like lost prophets put on display caught in the ricochet of overplay making an exit with the grace of a stumbling ballet down a poorly-lit nightclub passageway. Ultimately this can only lead to the face-plant moment-of-tomorrow the flooded memory of the-night-before feeling utterly spent hungover and hollow with ill conceived consent. The: Oh. My. God! The: ***** is still here, what do I say? Hoping inexorably they would just get up and silently fade away. Beer Goggles: remember to drink sensibly, or run the risk of nasty STD's or unwanted pregnancy or breathless infidelity or reckless insincerity or if you're really lucky, just another session in therapy.
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Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
Beer Goggles
Grinding.... Leaving it silenced, drawn and quartered Clawing for the scraps left over Predicament I found myself in Or, towards the end of it Slipping from the edges Forager focused on finding any way back home Sidetracked by some apparition left crying Alone, in the corner Grinding... Paused, with rain drops weighted, heavy sense in the air I can feel my lips turning blue and Twitching It's more literal than I would dare dream in a waking nightmare The smell of every molecule tantamount to another realm Hangs motionless in the air The stone transposed becomes a rooftop asylum, overlooking such uncouth misanthropic parcels, self absorbed in this grotesque imagery, a veritable wall of self hate puzzle pieces Grinding... Low, on an almost ominous note, still grows colder in my ears Blowing on winds filled with the spite and righteous Anti holy Fully rupturing sound of far off laughter of the New root My lips still moving No sound produced And my mind Grinding... I still pray to god for you Beset on all sides by the same wickedness Still afflicted by myself Argue for arguments sake ****** up on the uptake I thought that you might want it I guess I forgot all the subtle ways The fires spring to life at night Arguably the wrong choice is Looking at him I try not to Catch that glimpse in his eye Already my mind races And my bones are shivering At the thought alone Brickwork backing Still swells maggots And filing paperwork For entrapment habits Grinding
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Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
Anti
What rarity can acclaim to this elusive title? Where surely claiming it itself is against its nature. It might be what our mothers told grubby faced, knee knocked flecks that dart from graffitied parks when light turns dark. Is it in the eye of the beholder, a stubborn piece of irritating dust? Perhaps those who search will never be rewarded with a glimpse as perfection becomes unfathomably further. Why does the haughty swan rise when the it squawks more than the pigeon? Beauty is boxed. It is wrapped in parcels and swaddled in ribbon until one forgets that it is in the child's face and not his hands. Unmeasurable pleasure shouldn't be contained, it roams and commands like a caged tiger. It controls the eye and navigates, onward soldier. So perhaps it is not rare at all but there for all customary enough to anticipate the undeniable.
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Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
Beauty
It's an animal beastly thing wrapped up warm in stigmas headlines daydreams sleepdreams ice cream headspin. pain. Sirens call in my upper chest or my abdomen, maybe. a ****** sea. fish of mens' hooks eels and seaweed wound around aorta blood pumping mind squeezing toes cracking new blister dried fluid. cracks and flakes a flushing cycle, not over the **** yet. salty eyes heavy chest silver parcels unending quest not shiny particles. Head spin crack of dawn hey look the moon is gone. observed the craters they were my neighbours a hole in my heart like the one...... Don't play mean i try and try green bean carrot pencil brush pen, still here? Run! too hard. Curdling scream turns sour on my tastebuds my tongue has been dissatisfied. Add it to the list! lately I know these things should not have been acknowledged. Bed. No. Kitchen work? Yes. Hurts me through and through and I know it's because it is me and it cannot be handled but it settled in the pit of my stomach and it made itself a happy home. I HATE IT. BLOOD: *juice gore cruor claret hemoglobin sanguine fluid clot plasma vital fluid* why would I ever use blood? Porous salt bruises help mind chooses slugs and moths but i want insects like ladybird bees. Keep me weak and feed me lies because not once did you see me you only looked right past me. how does it feel, little peach, to be dishing out bowls of dinky lies. i ate it you were trusted you were good there's just so many people coming. when the moon rises and the sky twinkles lights about you its easy to be sad but its time for you to blossom
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Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
A Stream of Consciousness
It's an animal beastly thing wrapped up warm in stigmas headlines daydreams sleepdreams ice cream headspin. pain. Sirens call in my upper chest or my abdomen, maybe. a ****** sea. fish of mens' hooks eels and seaweed wound around aorta blood pumping mind squeezing toes cracking new blister dried fluid. cracks and flakes a flushing cycle, not over the **** yet. salty eyes heavy chest silver parcels unending quest not shiny particles. Head spin crack of dawn hey look the moon is gone. observed the craters they were my neighbours a hole in my heart like the one...... Don't play mean i try and try green bean carrot pencil brush pen, still here? Run! too hard. Curdling scream turns sour on my tastebuds my tongue has been dissatisfied. Add it to the list! lately I know these things should not have been acknowledged. Bed. No. Kitchen work? Yes. Hurts me through and through and I know it's because it is me and it cannot be handled but it settled in the pit of my stomach and it made itself a happy home. I HATE IT. BLOOD: *juice gore cruor claret hemoglobin sanguine fluid clot plasma vital fluid* why would I ever use blood? Porous salt bruises help mind chooses slugs and moths but i want insects like ladybird bees. Keep me weak and feed me lies because not once did you see me you only looked right past me. how does it feel, little peach, to be dishing out bowls of dinky lies. i ate it you were trusted you were good there's just so many people coming. when the moon rises and the sky twinkles lights about you its easy to be sad but its time for you to blossom
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Versions of Faith in the City: Food parcels Baptist Trinity Church Post euphoric Olympics nation building dashed by morally decrepit Premiership  football  - Obscenity chokes dumb defence. A late Summer's surge, harshly the un-starred kick those generic dustbin lids crumpled again.
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Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 3:15 PM UTC
Late Summer
POLICEMAN in front of a bank 3 A.M. ... lonely. Policeman State and Madison ... high noon ... mobs ... cars ... parcels ... lonely. Woman in suburbs ... keeping night watch on a sleeping typhoid patient ... only a clock to talk to ... lonesome. Woman selling gloves ... bargain day department store ... furious crazy-work of many hands slipping in and out of gloves ... lonesome.
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Stripes
If my world's a bakery in an endlessly large country you descend upon my city we pass at the stale loaves eyelashes flutter, aghast like I'm an insect assailing your glasses I watch you smile or grimace Run your tongue, checking for guilt stuck in your teeth "Oh! Hhey!!" Your voice surprises us both it is the same timbre in which I render words more decadent than your courage to spit at my living person when it stands all but 5'6 and breathing in front of you washing up bottle messaged on the beaches of my awareness ***** jezebel, ****** -her- See, I've been receiving your cookies in brown paper parcels Little birds didn't want me to miss out on the flavor I see you, small creature how quickly you frost your hate with buttercream icing, your loathing is cake you devour and feed to anyone who'll taste You have laid your field fallow and let me assume disgrace I want to tell you you're wrong I want to push you with my mind I want to throw sprinkles at you I see you, small creature with scrunched up fists and I taste your poison like grand marnier it spoils everything The recipe was followed rule for rule The souffle rose ***** though you may I'd almost rather hug you if it would squeeze out your wretchedness a flouncing whirl cupcake summit so we could be tin-pan square and may our pastry never mix again.
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Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC
Your Hate (Measured even in cake)
Soon be Christmas ...a special day lots of pressies from Santa's sleigh children be good or as they say no big parcels coming your way Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to all my friends Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to family afar Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to one and all Happy Christmas Lights from the tree burn and glow showing the way for santa to go children waking from little no sleep parents craving another 2 winks Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to all my friends Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to family afar Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to one and all Happy Christmas 4am and Santa's been all those wishes a dreamers dream wrapping and squeals in lots of houses turkey in now sherry starters Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to all my friends Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to family afar Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to one and all Happy Christmas
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Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 1:37 AM UTC
Happy Christmas
Dear political parties, please stop arguing with other parties and save the nation, the time you wanted our votes you made empty promises . Service delivery is your daily message,employment is a frog song,water and sanitation is your bed you lay on it. Where is that promises you made,most of orphans are starving, where is that food parcels. Opposition parties please stop opening your mouth,you were on that party the time that corruption took place, you always talk and talk but none of the things you fix if is not civil war. If you were having good promise why don't you help those who are staying in sharks,so that you can talk what you know. We are all living in Africa,let's not point fingers and do the Job we all given by God,we can not sleep and wake up with grass in our hand . Together let's join our hands and move Africa forward, this is not Africa for parties is Africa for all, the is no other government the government is you.
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Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
political parties
As a silly  spoilt child Disgruntled I grumble Throughout my blessed life Complaining about my loss That God does not give a toss But abundantly  in my life Scattered in my garden Live deep hidden forests Sacred special spaces Forgotten mossy places Things I can not see   In my soft mossy pastures I am drawn into sound Soft rich earthy ground My meddling hands resigning And my heart softening To the treasures God is bringing As a child I am sometimes still screaming for what I am not receiving   Even though chosen But my loving Father Always refusing to serve me poison But he keeps on giving Life's unexpected gifts Full of presents and parcels An unknown cultivated Karma A forgotten ignored pleasure Actually look at all the treasure Everyday a Christmas tree If I could only look and see So in my adult days I learn to look on In different ways With a mossy heart I nourished and softening receiving parcels tenderly passed down from heaven
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Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
MOSS
Is back.. It gives you a smile a mile wide to see Gypsy John is back Gypsy John with cart, horse and dog by his side People call from far and wide to deliver parcels of food for Gypsy John and his crew. Gypsy John sets up camp in the middle of the road, on what's called a roundabout. Gypsy John is getting old and sits around a camp fire to warm his cold bones and cook his food. Gypsy John does not like favours and takes his food begrudgingly, instead he will work all day for his pay, locals find him work indoors. When one cold winter came, locals crowd funded to buy him a new cart, his horse was retired as very old, £12000 was raised to keep Gypsy John and his animals well. Gypsy John comes with the change of season as summer turns to fall. Gypsy John is a reminder and reason to us all to keep going work hard and live long. Long live Gypsy John.
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Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 5:45 AM UTC
Gypsy John
Soon be Christmas ...a special day Lots of pressies from Santa's sleigh Children be good or as they say No big parcels coming your way Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to all my friends Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to family afar Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to one and all Happy Christmas Lights from the tree burn and glow Showing the way for Santa to go Children waking from little no sleep Parents craving another 2 winks Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to all my friends Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to family afar Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to one and all Happy Christmas 4am and Santa's been All those wishes a dreamers dream Wrapping and squeals in lots of houses Turkey in now sherry starters Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to all my friends Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to family afar Happy Christmas Happy Christmas to one and all Happy Christmas
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Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
Happy Christmas
The clock smiled at us as if it knew we were lost. Unable to see the path, we continued along on the wrong side of the ones and zeroes. Tired of our aimless float; fumbling along in the vacuums of our ignorance. With all kinds of navigational aids to chart our journey we mostly relied upon the compass tattooed over our hearts While lost in the chasm of our indecision our bodies and minds listed. Our attempts to unpack the endless parcels of our unrest ... proved futile. So carefully, we re-learned the ABCs and re-interpreted the Western Canon, finding that it was only by closing our eyes that we were able to see; were able to feel. However, the rhythm was off which was immaterial  as our feathers were ruffled and the rhetoric was pluming. With the overture of the new day dawning we turned our back on the algorithms of our demise and shucked off self-imposed limitations. You see, it was thirty seconds to midnight and the world that never seemed to want us needed us now. So like anemic royalty, we took flight breathing down rarefied air and gulping the nuances of our resilience to swallow: our intergenerational trauma one more time.
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Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 8:09 PM UTC
Plumage
_Buttered parcels filled, With rose hips and cinnamon; Heartache’s antidote._
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May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 7:41 PM UTC
Phyllo-philia
Hey Yalie, Diurnal Rituals Yield the Best Poetry A Yalie jogs before dawn, her senses being exercised, semi-aware there’s layered poetry out there and it must be retrieved, for the eyes observe the diurnal arousing of the day, and this too, must be recorded, part of the ordered duties of living, as the skin cells shed sweat droplets and words of living, parcels of breathing, a diary of notations, to educate the brain in ways and things that professors cannot teach… every sense operative, interactive, sound off neurotic synapses, are acrackling, as you lay out the day ahead, calendar and assignment checks, but the senses don’t care about that trivial minutiae of living nope the words are now coming fast and you hope your best that you will retain, retrain the memory to savor save, those combos of images encapsulated in new word combinations, that are yours alone, unique, proving to no one but yourself, that education, science et. al. is a seeded embryo & you the valedictorian of birth commencement ceremony so put them trainers on, and by dawning daylight you are awondering, now becoming a pondering, and the question never spoke aloud but oft posed, is this, this is, this is why I exist, and my identity? ***I am an institution in my own right, in my own write.*** Saturday Nov 4 8:01am nyc
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Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
Hey Yalie, Diurnal Rituals Yield the Best Poetry
You found me stuck staring at rearview mirror reflections of wintry, dusk intersections of everything leaving me all at once. A forced exhale of asphyxia caged in collapsing lungs; my mouth, a fountain spring, that coughed out pools of blood. I wish I saw myself the way you saw me; not a red traffic light wounding speeding cars on winding streets, but an antique heirloom priceless enough you'd only wish you could keep in a heart-shaped box you saw in dreams. But, I'd cut my tongue, paint my lips cherry shades to blend with cells that'd stain handkerchiefs you'd offer. Make you believe this isn't going to foster because you are indecision, unfinished watercolor landscapes of summer forest fire skies, a sun-kissed Pacific wanderer. And I am true crime untouched evidence of break-ins, remains of faulty locks and lights. I am mosaics misaligned; static, seabed cracks from forgotten fault lines. Gaping fissures of sand, and salt that won't let me stitch frayed skin-deep fibres barely holding me in. Oceans would have to empty themselves into whirring cyclones and high tides for our selfish sense of touch to collide. Ice caps would have to sink deep enough to even bruise my skin. And I wouldn't want to watch more Shakespeare end before it begins. *See, I am the one with sharp edges, but why did you have to be the one to clip my wings?* There is only an abyss without a trampoline, a safety net, a bed of waterlilies, I could fall in. And I am so tired of paradoxes and ironies; of always being wanted by someone who doesn't even want to be kept, of always being mended and then left with more dislocations, and fractures, one after another each taking longer to fix. Now, in shapeless parcels, without return addresses sent out into the void these words will echo of love I never intended to borrow, and shadows of false hope you never thought yourself capable of giving away.
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Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 6:02 AM UTC
Heart-shaped Box
You found me stuck staring at rearview mirror reflections of wintry, dusk intersections of everything leaving me all at once. A forced exhale of asphyxia caged in collapsing lungs; my mouth, a fountain spring, that coughed out pools of blood. I wish I saw myself the way you saw me; not a red traffic light wounding speeding cars on winding streets, but an antique heirloom priceless enough you'd only wish you could keep in a heart-shaped box you saw in dreams. But, I'd cut my tongue, paint my lips cherry shades to blend with cells that'd stain handkerchiefs you'd offer. Make you believe this isn't going to foster because you are indecision, unfinished watercolor landscapes of summer forest fire skies, a sun-kissed Pacific wanderer. And I am true crime untouched evidence of break-ins, remains of faulty locks and lights. I am mosaics misaligned; static, seabed cracks from forgotten fault lines. Gaping fissures of sand, and salt that won't let me stitch frayed skin-deep fibres barely holding me in. Oceans would have to empty themselves into whirring cyclones and high tides for our selfish sense of touch to collide. Ice caps would have to sink deep enough to even bruise my skin. And I wouldn't want to watch more Shakespeare end before it begins. *See, I am the one with sharp edges, but why did you have to be the one to clip my wings?* There is only an abyss without a trampoline, a safety net, a bed of waterlilies, I could fall in. And I am so tired of paradoxes and ironies; of always being wanted by someone who doesn't even want to be kept, of always being mended and then left with more dislocations, and fractures, one after another each taking longer to fix. Now, in shapeless parcels, without return addresses sent out into the void these words will echo of love I never intended to borrow, and shadows of false hope you never thought yourself capable of giving away.
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Come to me with all that you are Leaving nothing behind Make no attempt to conceal a scar Nor wound of body or mind Bring all your lifelong memories Whether fragments or complete Your daydreams and your reveries Your tales, your songs, your grief Let old dwellings be deserted Pack each and every thought Allow no baggage to be diverted Every aspect to be brought Load up your darkness and your light Make parcels of all you know Wrap strength and weakness, wrong and right Prepare them all to go Make ready your heart for travel Include chips and pieces scattered Edges beginning to unravel Even dust, from when it shattered Be sure no detail is forsaken Have no token to give in lieu Delivery will be signed and taken With all the love I bear for you
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Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
Love Unexpurgated
Soot and ashes are the platter from which I dine, the pool of my flagellation is the outpouring Merlot. I forget to breathe through the lash, rending the sackcloth until my nakedness is set before you. The bells harken, the pendulum keeps time, my requiem is set by your pulse. DO NOT dismiss me, DO NOT neglect to render my salvation in parcels. Level after level of purgatory the holy grail I imbibe and drink in ruin. As the shredding of my skin with filaments of rope, dislplay a journey of persecutions selfless ardor. Crouching I beseech, I grovel, forming steepled hands. Oh, humble penance slips my parched tongue and crippled lips. Sweet King, Soveriegn Lord, Merciful Master, I cower in my nothingness, wrapped in the robes of bleak shame. STILL I PRESS FORTH, through decadent chambers, in filth for a glimpse of your being. For the simple gesture of uttering your name. Does your crown sweat with the bulk of my sobs? To wipe your brow, smear your worries on my bodice. Enticing you from your throne to love... a slave.
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Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
A Moment of Devotion
You don’t understand, At first it was a compromise I had to accept, The sulfur-ridden stench that blazed my nostrils And made me seek a foreign tongue. They do not think I worked But I did. I washed the pains that clenched at My existence. I refused to ignore that foul pulpous print. Lured did it! Lured me to utmost perfection. Then John became but a stone In lurking shadows completely unseen. I revealed me to myself And hands were not shaken, that was not custom. Into the circle of my life One revelation proved its superiority, And now its comfort has deserted me. Take me back Take me back Wrap me in your shredded parcels of paper-tainted glory Tinge me with indecencies. I fear no guilt. I want to see my better half sing And dance between lines and smudges that thwart Into perception, To suspend the hour. Being. Doing. Without Needing To be There is no sanctuary here I lie in a familiar position now The attic floor cools my flushed face Pinching nerves cultivate essence My hands clench a tight fist My knuckles… They bleed yellow.
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Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:33 PM UTC
The yellow wallpaper lady
a refugee from wealth, he and his Dartmouth degree found the spot farthest from his New England roots, and the first roots he saw there were those of a banyan tree, giant gray tentacles piercing the Asian earth, imploring the black soil for atonement, he thought the natives said the tree was older than God immortal, but cursed with some blight that bedeviled them and that prudent pruning of ailing arms would be wise the man had only a Swiss Army knife   with its minuscule saw, but soon he set about the task of trimming the behemoth, one mad millimeter at a time, and mad was all the natives saw this white creature, high in the canopy, often from dawn until the sun sank in the jungle behind him sawing away, a half branch a day, treating the gargantuan arboreal like a prize bonsai villagers would come, hunker, watch in the shade of the tree once in a great while, they would see a branch crash on the ground, at which time they cheered the pitifully patient woodsman many offered to help, some leaving bow saws, axes at the banyans' base, but he would have none of that over and over he received new red knives with their tiny saws these parcels the only mail he got even during monsoon rains, the man's labors did not desist though his audience waned appearing to defy physics' uncertain laws the tree was nearly felled, but the man disappeared before his colossal task was done, the locals claiming he climbed into the thinned canopy one day and never came down not even a well worn blade was found allowing the witnesses to aver he was yet high in the heavens resting after love's labor had wearied his hands   but perchance healed his heart
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Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
Jack and the...banyan tree
a refugee from wealth, he and his Dartmouth degree found the spot farthest from his New England roots, and the first roots he saw there were those of a banyan tree, giant gray tentacles piercing the Asian earth, imploring the black soil for atonement, he thought the natives said the tree was older than God immortal, but cursed with some blight that bedeviled them and that prudent pruning of ailing arms would be wise the man had only a Swiss Army knife   with its minuscule saw, but soon he set about the task of trimming the behemoth, one mad millimeter at a time, and mad was all the natives saw this white creature, high in the canopy, often from dawn until the sun sank in the jungle behind him sawing away, a half branch a day, treating the gargantuan arboreal like a prize bonsai villagers would come, hunker, watch in the shade of the tree once in a great while, they would see a branch crash on the ground, at which time they cheered the pitifully patient woodsman many offered to help, some leaving bow saws, axes at the banyans' base, but he would have none of that over and over he received new red knives with their tiny saws these parcels the only mail he got even during monsoon rains, the man's labors did not desist though his audience waned appearing to defy physics' uncertain laws the tree was nearly felled, but the man disappeared before his colossal task was done, the locals claiming he climbed into the thinned canopy one day and never came down not even a well worn blade was found allowing the witnesses to aver he was yet high in the heavens resting after love's labor had wearied his hands   but perchance healed his heart
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When it's all going smooth, you're talking millions weekly JC is on his way, to pick up bundles of illicit US drug money Trouble is getting it back to Mexico and depositing in the banking secretly There are members of the cartel, that have anywhere up to $300 million, pure honey. Just sitting idle in their houses and they can't spend or use of it, not even a bit Once you've gone into partnership with the cartels You're only handling their money or changing it You can't leave, they'll find you, kidnap your family and Fedex them back as parcels They tell you "you have to do this" If not, they will **** you and they don't ever miss. Here is the money. What do I with it then? I get 5 ID's and I'm going to the currency exchange to change the dollars again You always have to give $200 to the cashier, which we put in here She logs into the system and records the transactions, that appear Just as though they were made by tourists Then we pass them onto our cartel bosses, who are very near us. The cash is now laundered and its origin erased They can deposit their money, which is now clean into Pesos, that can't be traced But this cash started its journey 3,000 miles away One of the biggest narco distribution hubs in America, I'd say The windy cities railway, port and interstate highway systems, are the best Making it the ideal location, distributing Dope and Cash from across the Midwest. Approximately 70% of the US population lives within a day's drive of Chicago The Southside is where a lot of the business gets done, just like in Eldorado Every deal is a drop in the bucket, that contributes to a mighty river of cash Chicago has over 70 gangs, with up to 150,000 members, who are all smoking hash Making it the largest and badest gang capital of the America’ Handling the retail, an army of local gangbangers we call the Drug Gangsta's.
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Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 6:03 PM UTC
Cleaning Narco Cheddar
When it's all going smooth, you're talking millions weekly JC is on his way, to pick up bundles of illicit US drug money Trouble is getting it back to Mexico and depositing in the banking secretly There are members of the cartel, that have anywhere up to $300 million, pure honey. Just sitting idle in their houses and they can't spend or use of it, not even a bit Once you've gone into partnership with the cartels You're only handling their money or changing it You can't leave, they'll find you, kidnap your family and Fedex them back as parcels They tell you "you have to do this" If not, they will **** you and they don't ever miss. Here is the money. What do I with it then? I get 5 ID's and I'm going to the currency exchange to change the dollars again You always have to give $200 to the cashier, which we put in here She logs into the system and records the transactions, that appear Just as though they were made by tourists Then we pass them onto our cartel bosses, who are very near us. The cash is now laundered and its origin erased They can deposit their money, which is now clean into Pesos, that can't be traced But this cash started its journey 3,000 miles away One of the biggest narco distribution hubs in America, I'd say The windy cities railway, port and interstate highway systems, are the best Making it the ideal location, distributing Dope and Cash from across the Midwest. Approximately 70% of the US population lives within a day's drive of Chicago The Southside is where a lot of the business gets done, just like in Eldorado Every deal is a drop in the bucket, that contributes to a mighty river of cash Chicago has over 70 gangs, with up to 150,000 members, who are all smoking hash Making it the largest and badest gang capital of the America’ Handling the retail, an army of local gangbangers we call the Drug Gangsta's.
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Benadryl and chill. Anti hystamine dreaming. Pre meditated drug dealing. Over inflateted egos. Boys with Legos for brains. Hussling at gas station. Sending little paper parcels to wide doe eyes. Getting high is more fun, anyways. Most days, I'd rather play pretend.
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Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
Benadryl and chill
~ the mercury is falling brisk, large flakes of snow are drifting fast, her blanket heavy on the limb, as ice paints frosting on the glass. winter’s tapestry is forming, street lamp’s light reflecting; strands of pearl stretch out, adorning, as fir transformed by snow, become a white angelic host. a fire burns brightly in the square, hands and cheeks find warming here; sound of bells festoons the evening, children dance along in time; ’round a village Christmas tree, bedecked with lights, the smell of pine, a whistle heralding the train’s arrival, a burst of steam floats on the breeze; her clacking wheels grind to a halt, and like treasure’s journey from afar, one by one, her most precious cargo laden down with parcels, disembark. excited voice, in joyous welcome, warmest hugs, wet kiss on cheek; familiar sound of families greeting, newborn babe grandparent meets. here my heart on Christmas Eve, to us though distant memory; for snow globe wishes, and angelic kisses, each as magical as these, a hopeful prayer, a song for peace, on earth for all who still can sing who long... who dream, of Christmas yesteryear; though even if a different scene, it's ember’s spark... it's wistful call... this is Christmas present, its gift love-scribed, on ev'ry tender heart! ~ *post script. as Christmas arrives for you and your family, may you be present, reflecting, not on what is missing, but on the joys of all that is not! Merry Christmas to each of you. who still dream!*
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Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
a Christmas present
~ the mercury is falling brisk, large flakes of snow are drifting fast, her blanket heavy on the limb, as ice paints frosting on the glass. winter’s tapestry is forming, street lamp’s light reflecting; strands of pearl stretch out, adorning, as fir transformed by snow, become a white angelic host. a fire burns brightly in the square, hands and cheeks find warming here; sound of bells festoons the evening, children dance along in time; ’round a village Christmas tree, bedecked with lights, the smell of pine, a whistle heralding the train’s arrival, a burst of steam floats on the breeze; her clacking wheels grind to a halt, and like treasure’s journey from afar, one by one, her most precious cargo laden down with parcels, disembark. excited voice, in joyous welcome, warmest hugs, wet kiss on cheek; familiar sound of families greeting, newborn babe grandparent meets. here my heart on Christmas Eve, to us though distant memory; for snow globe wishes, and angelic kisses, each as magical as these, a hopeful prayer, a song for peace, on earth for all who still can sing who long... who dream, of Christmas yesteryear; though even if a different scene, it's ember’s spark... it's wistful call... this is Christmas present, its gift love-scribed, on ev'ry tender heart! ~ *post script. as Christmas arrives for you and your family, may you be present, reflecting, not on what is missing, but on the joys of all that is not! Merry Christmas to each of you. who still dream!*
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