In Tangiers

Our footprints in the tiles
are imperceptable unless it rains, and until then
we seven are but ghosts lighting candles,
tracing the movement of banana tree roots
and the migration of birds. Our authority, our domain
is the rising and setting of the sun,
the goings on in between morning rush hour
and evening rush hour but nothing more.

The night belongs to those lovers
on the other side of the wall, and to the landlord,
always listening for evidence of his keep
spending their coins on clothing, on food, on old magic
that makes us fall out of the walls
and into his view.

The lovers are safe in their love. I know
exactly who you are - you are mine.
Nothing will change that is a sharp whisper
in ther aftermath of skin and sweat. It cuts the night
and spiderwebbs the inside of my brain
with wanting, desire for something I too
can keep for my own.

Lust for Life

Crocheted fingers
of scarves tickle skin
behind my ears, pressed
against the wall.
I don't have the slightest idea
of who you are tumbles
out of a mouth next door.
There are low murmurs, then laughter
as their two mouths meet,
and part, and meet,
and part.

All Apologies (A News Post)

Hi folks,

It's been a rough couple weeks for me - my own family drama and my wife's family drama came to a head, and there's probably more to come - but I'm back with some new poems and a partially filled well of creative ideas to pull from for the next month. Thank you to all of you who've visited the site since it went silent - I promise not to let it happen too often.

In any case, I've got two new poems I'm posting today since I won't get to edit poems this weekend and I work on Monday morning. They are part of a sequence, but I'm not sure how long it'll become. Hope you enjoy "Lust for Life" and "In Tangiers".

Respect and Love,
Your Drugged-out Newscaster,

A.L.J.

From your local neighborhood wannabe ex-pat

No poem today. My black rage is too strong. Pray for our country that believes lying to its citizens is the way, and human rights are disposable products. Now my site's being monitored by the federal government. Up yours, Feds.


Incensed,

A.L.J.

P.S.- http://www.businessinsider.com/congress-passes-cispa-cybersecurity-bill-2013-4#ixzz2QrSge400

Perennial

The night blooms.
Shadows follow
the red wane of sundown,

the air darkens, becomes saturated
with pollen. Still,
thoughts of you

invade he hollows
of my head.

When the moon is all too present against the panes,
I watch the garden waver –
I watch it fill with even more life, movement.

I watch the tulips’ stems bend,
their petals kiss the faces
of their neighbors, the irises –

the ones we planted in fall,
trying to outrun the frost.

I try to ignore the plot of asters
you made me agree to plant

after you were diagnosed.
Out of duty, an unshakeable
obligation, I tend them.

I tend them because, in my dreams,
you are the camellia’s scent – present,
though barely perceptible.

The Evening Stock begin to shrink inward
as light stretches the lines of their shadows.

Daytime insects stir –
they loop and circle
in the air above your garden.

You are in my memory, still, amid the off-white sheets –
there is light, the slow rhythm of your breathing,
and the heart monitor

chirping intermittently.

Po' Folk Blues

Our complaints,
our lust for $10 an hour,
our hunger,
never satisfied.

In the small space of the courtyard
just a small patch of grass:
there are broken bottles,
fingernails,
a near-death past.

In everything that passes:
our overflowing streets,
our daily transactions,
in the exhaust from buses,
our hunger is sharpened.

Our fathers leave no wills,
cool rain does not fall on us,
& our war is unseen,
though already declared.

In that small space
between pillars of brick and glass,
we gorge on the past,
gnaw our broken fingernails,
break more bottles
& sharpen our knives.

We who wear masks,
we who miss, who remember,
we who speak in whispers,
we who have nothing
are waiting.

Our watches bought in Union Square
are always broken, never wind,
the rent is always due, but can't be paid,
the showerheads drip rust-water
& the last train downtown
has left the station -

it is full to capacity with pale visitors.

They cannot see us.
Our knives are ready.

We are waiting.

Future Blues

I apologize for the delay in posting, but I have a good reason. That being that $176 per paycheck not only doesn't cover my bills, it doesn't even put socks on my feet or food in my fiancee's belly. So I've been scavenging for extra work this week and trying not to just throw up my hands, say "Fuck it!", and leave the country. I brought that up to say this: How many years do you think America has before it ends up like North Korea? Check out this article (http://finance.yahoo.com/news/heres-lousy-life-north-korea-135740771.html) and think hard about the similarities. Try and assess whether you're among the "elite" class or the so-called "middle" (which, really, hasn't existed in this country for years). If you're in a similar situation, hit me up in the comments to this post.

Today/Friday's poem is an imitation of Hans Magnus Enzensberger's "Middle Class Blues". Hope you enjoy.

Seasons (On Loss)

i.
Have you ever tasted yellow?
Smelt a tango? Seen lithe song?
Touched cherries’ flavor
or heard the sweet pop of smoky scents,
the warm approach of roses,
or the hot-house jazz of autumn?

ii.
Have you ever smelt black ice
or touched the white of snow?
Heard oatmeal’s scent creep through a cold house or
seen numbness under knitted gloves?
Have you ever tasted the air around the kids outside,
with their snowballs and sweat soaked snow pants?
Or tasted the warmth melting their fingers as they sip chocolate after the battle?

iii.
Have you ever touched March or heard all the locks
unlock, letting in the new air? Tasted a daisy
or the bitter Please forget me
at the end of her note
at the foot of the bed?
Have you ever smelt distilled spirits of leaves and sunlight?
Have you ever seen regret?
Seen a pregnant mind aborting lines and revisiting past mistakes?
Or seen the touch of your letters, crisp,
with no return address?

iv.
Have you ever seen the sizzle
of a Latina’s New York pulse or tasted the screams and shouts
of street children playing in a spraying fire hydrant?
Touched the rolling curves of heat rising from the street and
heard the stop sign’s red and white scream, melt, and drip
into the underground midnight sewer?
Have you ever smelt the Caribbean grandmother’s stare inquire
about the tan-lines around your finger?
Have you ever smelt her thinking, pitying?
Smelt her sad smile forced onto the surface
of her farm-field face,
smelt the tears you wouldn’t let rise
as you politely smiled back?

v.
Have you ever heard the wind rustling the browning leaves?
Have you ever heard the cold crack of the moon rising –
the sound of a heart breaking?
Have you ever heard the rain soak the half-frozen ground,
making it pregnant as spring?
Have you ever watched the youth die out of a flower,
burnt blood-purple above the hearth?
Have you ever smelt your own stale, dry smell,
the result of too many showers?
Have you tasted your own blood?
Have you ever tasted your own blood after chewing your lip
as you take down her favorite books –
books you can’t read anymore?

September

Noon's slow hemorrhage
into sundown.

These brief rays
chilled, cloaked
in grey.

Sorrow
is not its first name -

shame colors
the jerk of chains, air
wounded by shouts, wails.

Everything is broken, here -

dry eyes, distances bridged
by consoling hands.

Warm ghosts bargain, here,
for their memories,
for a loss that is theirs
alone.

What we are able to keep
are scant remembrances -
a face, a laugh, an address
we can never revisit -

only what is weightless
and green.