"tangier" poems
complexity
is your beauty
simplicity
your mystery
interdependence
sustains you
once upon a time
we dipped bowls
into your waters
and brought up
draughts of life
now
Skipjacks go
fathoms deep
into endless
depletion
charting
entangled
dead zones
broadening
into a sea of
inertness
your delicate
eco-essence tips
toward oblivion
effluvia farmers
layer mechanized
blankets of
nitrates on your
sunset shores
weaving
green tendrils
of algae blooms
strangling the
entanglements
of all links in
your miraculous
food chain
the EPA
proscribes
a Jenny Craig
pollution diet
to halt the
slaughter in
oxygen
challenged
dead zones
where rockfish
are garroted,
oysters get drilled
by screwworms
and azure tinted
soft shell *****
dance soft
shoe taps
lifting a tinny
chorus of sad
Piedmont Blues
the flat-lining
watersheds
voiceless
warnings
tremble
rocking the
purged nests of
screaming ospreys
in vocal protest
of a sinking
Tangier Isle
anointing it’s
tombstones
of unvisited
cemeteries with
multicolored
guano
fitting
alkaline
tributes
to the lost
inhabitants
and forgotten
languages
sinking into the
brine of gray
brackish tides
Delmarva’s fine
intra-continental
balance skewed
by the oozing
industrial swill
of Frank Perdue
chicken farms
ruling the roost of
sanctioned sustainability
tinging clear watersheds
of finger lakes
set in splints to
repair dislocations
and complex
compound fractures
that may never heal
again
Music Selection:
Taj Mahal: Fishin Blues
jbm
Oakland
6/7/12
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A cop was butchered
They knifed his chest
And indifferently examined
Red flowers just grown on his soul asylum
Red flowers
On his soul asylum
The blood splashed on the children’s faces
It’s no blood it must be freckles
It is blood
It’s no blood it must be freckles
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A sleepless cop was killed
He had been reading Naked Lunch all night long
And then they killed him
And the kids
Freckle-faced
Each bought an ice-cream
And threw the changes into the face of
A beggar with a boyish haircut
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A proud cop was killed
His eyelashes smashed the sun into pieces once and for all
And once and for all his lips repeated:
Kids
Heroine
Tangier
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A cop was butchered
He knew nothing about the literary work of a poet Dmitry Alexandrovich Prigov
He just remembered his name
From a literary radio program
In November or April
On the left side of the supermarket
From the darkness and the wall scripts of the entrance
A cop appeared like a comics character
With a cap on and a stiff collar, he had been cutting through the darkness and air
And he somehow reminded a shark
Huge and white
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A courageous cop was killed
Then he got up and walked across
The river, which does not divide a city into two parts
He walked with pride
He’d got the power
To taste the sea
Without getting wet.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC
You had been in Tangiers
until the early hours
of the morning
and was brought back
to base camp on the truck
as the sun was beginning to rise
over the horizon
and had then gone
to crash down
in your tent
too tired to undress
and slept through
until midday
then showered
and sat in the bar
when Mamie came
and sat beside you
and said
where’d you go last night?
I thought you
were going to walk me
down by the beach
and watch the sun rise
from the sea?
I was too tired
you said
I crashed out in my tent
she looked at her glass of coke
I could have joined you there
she whispered
and done what?
you said
slept beside me?
she shifted her buttocks
on the stool and said
well it would have been better
than sleeping in my tent
with that Scottish hen
as her brother calls her
you sipped your drink
and watched
the old Moroccan guy
in the corner
inhale on his marijuana smoke
plus I had her snoring
and moaning in her sleep
Mamie added
giving you her side on stare
yes
you said
it would have been
better than that
and she put her hand
on your thigh
and rubbed it back
and forth and said
but it didn’t happen
maybe next time
you replied
imaging it all
in your mind
right down
to the last removing
of clothes
and trying to move
in the tent’s small space
your body drained
of all strength
wanting only sleep
the Tangier *****
and belly dancers
and nightclub smoke and music
clinging on your flesh
and ringing in your ears
and she trying
to get you in
the right place
and you closing your eyes
and drifting away
like one who dies.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
Come on pilgrim,
vamos east
to Jerusalem and Mecca,
ferried from Algeciras to Tangier.
King James told me some stories,
he'd give me a ride, and
we can pull what we want
on abortion and abolition,
strung on a thorny rope
out of H. Christ's tight little *******
Black Francis, Picasso, and S. Dali;
chicos guapos, you are good to me.
I fight Pablo, a different one,
through Robert Jordan (ingles)
Pablo, eres un cobarde, go and
get gored by your bullheaded stupidity.
General,
I'll wander the labryinth,
slicing up eyeballs (oh ** ** **
unable to leave the room.
(they're only cow eyeballs, don't worry)
You Spaniards!
Yo hablo un poquito,
but those men
speak to my heart.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
and sitting in the corner of a blessedly quiet McDonalds that is so old they haven't changed their booths to be uncomfortable to sit in, yet and wearing a black dress suited for vamps,
tarnished serpentine earrings whispering in my ears
not yet not yet not yet
speaking also to the stolen ring in my bag
that I am not yet a bougie eccentric
made to burn money and carry cigarette wands
and travel to tangier and have a little exotic pet
until I become more educated, eloquent, work on
my elocution until I am someone, who's someone
that deserves and has the gall to take, and possess
the world's most most beautiful blue wolf fur coat
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Miryam stands beside
two Arabs
and a camel
to be photographed.
Baruch presses
the shutter
of the camera
and the scene
is captured.
She pays
the two young men
and they walk off
with the camel
talking in
their own tongue.
She adjusts the bikini top.
Brauch puts away the camera.
Someone said
they expect to be paid,
she says.
Why not,
Baruch says,
watching her fiddle
with her bikini bottom,
her fine behind.
The Moroccan beach
is deserted, except
for the departing men
and camel further
along the beach.
She complains of the heat,
fingers her fuzzy hair,
stares at Baruch,
scratches her nose,
gives a Monroe pose,
hands on hips.
Take me like this,
she says.
He obliges.
He shutters the camera,
his eyes capture,
stores away her image,
in more ways
than one.
She talks of his drinking
into the small hours
in that Tangier's
night club
the guide took them to,
the belly dancer,
the snake charmer.
On the way back
to the camp
in the back
of the truck
with the others,
he remembers,
the kissing,
the embracing,
stirring his pecker.
She talks
of the early morning sky,
the smell of kebabs,
her feeling heady,
how she thought
he'd come to her tent.
Too tired,
he says,
besides I had to think
of your reputation.
Others would know.
I'm not a nun,
she says,
getting me stirred up
and then leaving to stew.
They walk hand in hand
along the beach,
the tide coming in,
touching their feet.
She talks of her parents,
medical professionals,
the boy she had a crush on
who went off
with someone else.
Baruch feels her pulsing
along the wrist,
his fingers holding there.
She talks of the other evening
when they came down there
to escape the noisy party
at the camp, the dancing,
the music, the wine.
He recalls the darkness,
the deep tuffs of grass
before the beach
was reached,
she and him,
kissing, embracing,
moonlight shining,
stars like scattered
sparkling diamonds.
No one missed us,
she says,
no one knew
about me and you.
He remembers
the echo of music
over head,
the gentle breeze,
distant voices,
her murmurings,
sound of sea
upon the beach,
both feeling
and touching,
giving pleasure,
each to each.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
Where I been is nothing where I could go
The crystal lakes and the humming does
Here and now through the thick tangier fog
Stage is set and the bet is hot and wet
Seeing with my ears as mind is a ringing
Naked and next to a wishing waterfall
Diamond bleeds reflecting where jade is in numbers
And out in the world is where all the love is
Raining on the front steps of a fortune cookie theft
Whistling into infinity for the void is never scared
Inside the roaring thump of a babies new born heart
Heat surrounding you crying for more and more
Lighting your soul up like a christmas tree fire
Nodding off into sleep as the beat is that steep
Crying for forgiveness sighing for deliverance
I am nothing without you and I cannot go on
Listen to the walls the streets the worlds and its treats
Money murdering the dreams of the young people
Soon to be old and buried without ever reaching
For stars all along their beds are engulfed in hatred
Seas churning and burning shooting for the stars
Another rough start to another rough question
Legions are pouring out where will you walk
If you don't even have the nerve
To open up your mouth and talk
Since the moon lit walks are done
And the player is singing our final song
Why not you come over here and make me feel nice?
Im all alone and my house is down the block
Why don't we get outta' her and have us a talk?
Or we can stride in silence with your hair dancing too
My eyes might water and my hands might shake
But come on now baby an' give me a break
I don't mean no harm and I don't smell like a barn
I promise I got the rose even without the thorns
Make me whisper sweet nothings into your ear
Your smile is the only thing I'd walk for miles n' miles
Trees walk with us as we watch the setting sun
Ill be here give it some thought sweet ***
Make sure to keep it quiet the bartenders got a gun
Look with your eyes and not your face for the case
Might get harry if you wake up old Barry
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 8:10 AM UTC
Light of the dawn
A midmorning song
We lay awake
All day in bed
Wondering about the day
We will be wed
Winter winds blow on through
My open
And seared window
She cries asleep
Into her weathered pillow
I'm afraid for you
I'm afraid for me
How many times we gonna' through this babe
Until we can truly see?
Mountains with bare sides
No flowers, no snow, no rain
There ain't nothing to gain
When the love ain't the same
Two guns on my hip
A cool cigarette flip
The guitar player gently
Fingers his wooden pick
Out on the horizon
Where the sun and moon set
Angels play their hands
With no interest in the bet
Luck is a lady
Smooth and tangier
Don't go away baby
Stay right here
Lost souls on an ancient highway
Take a drink, go my way
We walk through the fog
We trample through these ancient groves
Any man who has followed
Has once thought
Not to do what they were told
"A million and one secrets,"
Chuckled the referee,
"A thousand things keeping
You from me."
He holds up both his hands,
A smile painted on his face.
"At least you got what you wanted.
Your solidarity and my inevitable death."
He twists the the .45 in his hand.
He pulls the trigger.
He falls to the floor.
At night,
When all has fallen silent,
Rats tap
On our window.
They're hungry like
We all
Are. I feel sorrow for these outcasts
Of nature, society, reality,
They were born in the gutter
Only to die
In the gutter.
Entering the threshold of
Mind and skin, it's hard to believe
Every one of us
Is
Kin.
The horrors
Of our violent, imaginative mind,
Can only mean
God chooses not
To materialize.
We'll have
To put
Ourselves on
For size.
Say I have lack of faith.
State I am a non-believer.
And I will listen, I will nod and grin.
But I wish not to dabble
In tribulations of deaths win, for what I have done,
What I am, and what I will do,
Will have no weight of
Religious sin.
All I can judge myself on
Is what I have and haven't done
For each
Fellow man.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
It’s the sound of peeling wallpaper,
Damp seeping in from the frost bitten windows.
Daytime traffic on Christmas eve,
And misted breath between pages of Pound,
Eliot and Rimbaud.
It’s the sound of mouldy drapes,
Clutched to the rail that clings to the rust.
The hiss and crackle of today,
And the wave of the colonial - of Guthrie,
Williams and Seeger.
It’s the sound of a Tangier typewriter,
Clacking to the chimes of a generation.
The scrawl of freedom
And the echoes of our fathers – of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs.
It’s the sound of the swamp,
A hoodoo beat winding through the ruins.
From bayous to boroughs,
Following the march of Washington,
Franklin and Jefferson.
It’s the anthem of a teenage disease,
The force of the Devil’s crossroads.
The returning of a light, obscured
In the ruins of time.
It’s the song of the tambourine,
And the lasting footsteps of a song and dance man.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
Miriam likes the sun.
Miriam wears her
skimpy bikini on
the Moroccan beach.
Benedict prefers
the shade.
Benedict likes
the skimpy bikini
that Miriam wears
he watches her
as they walk the sand
hand in hand.
She has her sunglasses
pushed to the top
of her red-headed hair
and her freckled face
absorbs the sun
making her
blush looking
in skin and flesh.
He has his sunglasses
over his eyes
from which
he secretly spies
other girls
apart from her
in skimpier bikinis
or fuller filled
or taller than she
or such may be...
Cooler last night
she says eyeing him...
Cool indeed
says he and how
was she who
shares your tent?...
Miserable as sin
with her mouthful
of moans
Miriam says
taking in his brown
quiffed hair
and his far off stare...
I have the ex-army guy
Benedict says
and his tales of woe
and depressive thoughts
eyeing a passing girl
in tight pink shorts...
If only you
were in my tent
with me
she says
it would be time
well spent
not have her moans
and groans to hear...
That time I did
after the nightclubs
of Tangier till dawn
says he
you had your moans
and groans
to fill the air...
Mmm
she says smiling
if only you were
still there making love
with your hands
in my hair...
Too true
says he studying
with shaded eyes
Miriam's assets
bikinied or not
as best he dare.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
The lamplight is
dimly lit.
here am i,
shoving
panda express
into the dark cavern
called my mouth
where the stalactites
and stalagmites
dance together and apart
it's a bit tangier than usual
my taste-buds concur
the rice is lukewarm
and falls off my fork
paperwork due tomorrow
SAT prep
projects
my future
and all i want to do is
write poetry
7:18 pm
and i sit,
writing poetry
for me writing is breathing
air
and sometimes i hold my breath for
days at a time
i cannot be a hermit
i must have interaction
though i
want to be alone
far away
where even
beethoven's fifth symphony
wouldn't drown out the noise
he laughs at me
who?
who are they that mock me?
beethoven
shakespeare
poe
conan doyle
even
charles dodgson finds me funny
"so you want to be a writer?" they boom, and suddenly i
am as
small as dust
"YOU a FEMALE WRITER and MUSIC LOVER? ha! i never heard anything funnier!"
and the voices mush into one
and it softens to become the voice
of my inner critic
my nemesis
my arch foe
my ennui
and that is only the 14th
of April.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
Helpless, when so many have died.
Can we do nothing but hurt inside?
Those can’t go home, no matter who cried.
Yet we never set those guns aside.
We listened while politicians lied
And even when some of us tried
Too many took up the other side
And insisted they were on the right side
The godly side, the intelligent side.
But they too were wrong or just lied.
And fifty eight, so far, have horribly died.
So, who is in the right here?
We ask year after year.
Why do we sell illogical fear
To allow weapons to be sold here
That are not used to shoot deer
Or game for food, but it is clear
They are for shooting people here
In our own country, not in Tangier
Or Kabul, killing strangers for fear
They’ll take away our freedom here
And very much like some King Lear
Trust all the wrong people. It’s clear.
Every eight years, we go insane
And let America’s worst bane
Take over what still remains
Of a splendid land that retains
The intentions and words of the sane;
The founders of our nation, and again
Give it all away “to elect for change’
Without consideration for the pain
That it took; the blood and the pain
To fight those who hate freedom’s name
And then to elect them back in again.
They are only too glad if we ****
And maim and destroy at will
As long as it's the poor we ****
And not their beloved on their hill.
That is too bitter of a pill
For them to take, so they shill
And subvert and always will.
They’ll approve the crazy skill
It takes to sit up on a hill
And shoot people at will.
They never quite get their fill.
So, when will we people get wisdom
And ban those repeating weapons
Being sold ***** nilly in the kingdom
Of hate, greed without sound reason?
When will we see that we are with them?
Just another human like their women
Brothers, fathers and even their children
That can be erased by their bad decisions
To let more nameless, brainless buy weapons
That have no good solid application
Except a bullet to the brain of our nation.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
Miriam
**********
in the tent
out of wet
underclothes
where the dim
hippy guy
spilt his drink
on purpose
by design
or by sheer
clumsiness
was unclear
the short skirt
a bright red
was now stained
Benedict
had not seen
he was off
in Tangier
sight-seeing
she tosses
the wet stuff
in a bag
and pulls out
dry clean clothes
from the white
new suitcase
her parents
had bought her
for the trip
she dresses
and goes out
of the tent
avoiding
the hippy
in the bar
with red beard
and guitar
and goes sit
on the beach
wondering
what it was
Benedict
was doing
she wishes
he was there
making love
hot with her
his fingers
in her hair.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
Some hours later, night having fallen over Lisboa, It was Clara who sat in the loveseat while Ta'ra was asleep. Simon kept graveyard hours, partly from work, partly from an ingrained watchfulness that only ever left him in the small hours before dawn. So it was a usual occurrence for the two woman to sleep and wake and find him still active and awake, cooking or writing or at work, sometimes just staring aimlessly at the skyline of the Almafa. Clara was speaking of her loves and loyalties to him, no guitar for her though. Her gifts were the brush and her voice, both of which had always held a power over men. Her life had been one of passions only half felt, half lived, an object to be possessed by those she enraptured with a whisper in the ear or a sketch on a napkin.
"You speak of passion with such...disdain. As if it's something one could do without and be better off..." He looked up at her from the tile floor of the balcony where he was sitting crosslegged like some aesthetic. She smiled her full, rich smile down at him and then turned away, knowing this was a man she had tried to conquer, and failed. She had known he couldn't be swayed the way most were the first night in Tangier while waiting for the ferry. It had been her intention to barter passage from him for what most men think of as passion. Instead he brought them both to his apartment here as roommates, gotten papers for them, helped them start a life that wasn't that of a hunted thing. "Passion is a weakness that brings us away from ourselves, and presents us to someone else's lusts and wants and needs. In the end, we give all we have, and are emptied of life," she whispered, more to herself than Simon. He sighed as one who isn't sure whether he should speak or not. "You say that, and yet I'm attracted to that word, its implications, its many meanings to us. What you think of as passion is so different from what I think of it as, or Ta'ra for that matter." Clara gave a sharp ha! as response, as if she could divine something we mortals were ignorant of. "Isn't that what you two share," he asked, "passionate love? For eachothers' bodies? Your souls? I hear the two of you, envy it sometimes you know. I haven't been lost within someone completely like that in a very long time." Turning back and staring at him hard before speaking, she slowly and precisely told him that he would never understand what that really was between the two women, because he was a man.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
Maybe that was the first mistake I made
there at the very beginning.
I wanted all of it, everything I could glean
from whatever life had to offer.
Not only did I want the beauty of Hesse,
Dante, and all the glories of Old Florence,
I wanted someone like me to share it with.
I wanted to wake up in a room in Tangier
to the Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer
and have some unbelievable soul in bed with me
wipe the sleep from her eyes and kiss me.
They say that I'm a drunk and a dreamer
and they may in fact be right about that,
but they'll never know the absolute glory
that comes from pouring your bleeding guts
out onto paper at two in the morning with
Pavarotti blaring as loud as you can make him.
I'm almost thirty and I've almost given up,
almost accepted that the finer things in life
will only ever be a dream, a fleeting glimpse
into an improbable future that may cost too much.
And then I meet people like her, Artists and Lovers
that cut me in ways I didn't think I could be anymore.
I'll be doing alot of drugs with them, maybe have some
truly Protestant shaming *** with them, trying to
reach out across that ****** abyss and touch their soul.
But I'll never wake up in Tangier with them.
I'll fall asleep listening to Netflix and wondering
who gave her the scars I can feel pumping through her heart.
It'll probably fade away relatively quickly too,
that one real moment when the walls fell.
No matter, I always knew deep in my heart of hearts
that people like me don't get happy endings or to
live our dreams out unless we die for them.
We go our own way, suffering to be who we are,
creating beauty in ****** rooms with screaming
children that reek of cat **** and regrets.
But if it ever gets too much to bear, there's
always truly running, truly giving up on
having it all, walking the **** away
and being insane and drunk in Tangier alone.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
Me 'r aw gawn a' fer dawn
'cept t'grizzle that passed them bowts on
'n Tangier boys t' young to take t' wooder
Tangier boys and twist knuckle fellers
Gather up t' cafe a'four
fer a soda widda woodermen's beans
'n downa docks a'foive a'clock
for castin' awff lines 'n dreams.
Fer pops gawn out t' bay n' t'oyster beds
over thin lip 'rizon no more t'seen.
Nuttin' but bikes, ***** slap jellies,
'n them ain't hard favored come-ere's
nigh as peas wandrin' the uppards
'til black chug zaust sounds riturn
from Chrisfiel', 'nuther day
jingin' in t'pockets, 'nuther shuck
pall ready fer spoiders n' hoi wooder.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 6:37 AM UTC