The Body of Abel Found by Adam and Eve

The Body of Abel Found by Adam and Eve

William Blake, c. 1825; Watercolor on wood

His muscles stand out in wooden relief.
Bare flesh runs from blue black shadows of hills.
The distant red sun tears fingers through grief
darker than mother’s hair, the boy’s final shroud
her limp body a bower for his will.
The father behind her, eyes searching still
for the son that remains. He wouldn’t dare
look down at his slain son. Mother’s cries trill.
The marked one escapes, tearing his hair
in one moment separated from goodness.
When family ends whose wail is loudest?

empty arms

it happened so long ago

did it really happen?

i was scared, i didn't know

and you, you didn't want to know

how could you be so cruel

leaving me all alone?

so now, all i have are haunted

haunting memories of white coats

and empty arms

Dinner Party

This morning I went to the market

I bought leeks and ham

The ingredients for

my grandmother’s soup

- everyone loves that soup

By late afternoon

Things were in place

The table was set to impress

With fresh flowers and candles

For décor

I made my way to the kitchen

And chopped, and chopped, and

Chopped and then

Cubed the ham

Twenty minutes later

And there it was

That irresistible scent

Such a crowd pleaser

When my boss arrived with his wife

The aroma wafted into the

Living room, where we sat for

A few minutes…

I managed to make myself laugh

At his recycled stories and jokes

(which weren’t all that funny

The first time around)

But thankfully, his wife noted how

Hungry she felt, and I suggested

That we make our way to the dining room

That’s when it happened

From the kitchen I heard

oooohs and ahhhhhs

As they admired my table arrangement

It was almost funny

The leeks and ham blended

So wonderfully, and I placed my

Mother’s serving bowl and ladle

On the table for the guest’s to help themselves

I brought my bowl from the kitchen

And sat to join them while we ate

They mistook my delay for politeness

And, I let them believe their error

But what they didn’t know could not hurt them

The cat licked the soup spoon.

Pumping Hair

Dare you to pump that hair,
a mountainous one, just no fair,

growing out of a juicy mole,

climbing as high as a totem pole.

I love to pump oil all day you see,

Starring at the mirror as Arnold wouldn’t disagree,

damn look my biceps already 5 mm round,

It’s even got all them verruca girls asking me around.

hurry up dude what you gonna’ quit?

why don’t you go hang out with those four-eye zits.

don’t you worry I’ll pump this thing,

why don’t you go fetch my champion ring.

but what’s this fellas, I think I lost my grip,

Swoot

there go my bowels, out onto the lip.

Will She Ever Understand?

She doesn't understand.
I had her when I was sixteen years old.

They didn't understand.
Threw me out the house like a pile of garbage.
I was on my own raising her.
On my own driving her to school everyday.
On my own working two jobs to provide for us.
But she doesn't understand.

She asked me "why did I give up?"
And I said to her, "I didn't."
"I chose you."

But she doesn't understand.
Wonders why she can't dress fashionably like Charlene and Rebecca.
Why she can't drive a brand new car as they do.

How do I explain to her?
How do I tell her that my biggest regret is also my greatest joy?
I made a mistake,
But I have raised a smart and beautiful girl.

He is an Asshole

He acts so cocky, like he is the shit

But inside, he feels like shit

He puts people down,

so in relation he is above

He validates no one,

because he doesn’t want to be the only one feeling rejected

On the outside he pumps himself up big and strong,

on the inside he is a scared little boy

He ups the ante,

because he has no hand

He has to have his way,

because he knows of no other way

He stomps on people like a shoe,

while inside he is an insignificant, tiny ant

He is mean and condescending,

because he is terrified of anyone finding out the truth

He portrays an insensitive, inconsiderate man,

to hide the fact that he is hurt and vulnerable

But in the end,

he is still an asshole

Monster

You watch me as if I am a criminal.
I know the truth,
That I have paid for your crimes.
You disgust me.

How can you not trust me,
but you trust them?
Less integrity than phlegm...you make me sick.

Sit back and relax with your nice cup of lies,
it's you that will meet your inevitable demise.
I know He knows the truth.
Truth.
Foreign to you, with all the sins that you do,
and you make it up as you go along.
But all seem to sing along.

Get me out of this cell,
I shouldn't know pain this well.
Well, what can you expect from people so vain;
they know nothing of my pain, or how it feels to bleed from chains.

Let me out,
so you can get in.

guardian of soles

The cloud looms overhead

Raining only on me,

And thank God for that.

Unfathomable it would be

To share in its shadow.

A chill chases the water down my back

What cold and dark waters are these

That procure such provocative thoughts?

Solitary I stand,

Seeking solace in its solemn shade...

Or so I muse. I remain voraciously vigilant

For I cannot tarry in these troubled waters carelessly

The creatures that lurk below, everywhere.

Craving continuous contact

But willing to accept less.

Give an inch, they'll take a mile and maybe

Your leg. Is it not unreasonable to take

Extra precautions?

Take cover, take care,

Save your soles!

For the predators in the shallow pools

Have no mercy for their prey.

Invisible, innumerable and infectious.

A Dream

As I look at myself in a mirror in a delusional, foggy state

Thoughts are racing through my head

I can’t believe my eyes

That it is me I see, exposed to the society

I have always been reserved

Never let myself loose

Thus always got what I deserved

But here comes a moment of truce

My life has stopped,

the day I was caught nude at the barber shop.

How can this be?

Am I really looking at me?

Is this an insanity spree?

I want to run,

I want to cry,

I want to laugh

But don’t know how

I am frozen in place

Don’t know what to say,

because my nudity cannot be explained.

As I am about to speak I hear a sound

I realize it is my alarm

I keep my head high on the field,

as my darkest secret was not revealed.

Drawing a Fresh Breath

I have a secret.

Don’t tell anybody.

I have $10,000 in a bank account!

It was given to me and I can spend it however I want!

Do you realize how many things can be done with this, how many things we can do?!

A TV with surrounds sound, a better car.

Credit card bills gone, nice presents for friends and family.

At least 5 priceless trips to the Caribbean, with drinks on the beach and everywhere!

The loans are suffocating me and they got me rationing food and my freaking coffee!

They’re always gonna be there, but they wont hurt me now.

I have found a little space for breathing!

Let’s keep this quiet, alright? Money’s a double-edged sword, you gotta be careful!

Part of me feels a little guilty even having this money.

I only want you to know about this!

Don’t tell anybody.

Keep this secret.

Insensitive?!

Insensitive is how they describe me?

A white-coated, stethoscope wielding thug

telling me who to be?

My first doll (at age four)

with dark lustrous hair spilled on the floor,

and the lilac dress I wore

on my first day of school, a joke says you;

says I, how cruel.

What of my friends,

will they care? what will change? my life is -

Oh my god! My first kiss!

what do I tell him? Please, don't make it this.

Is this the truth? Is my life now a lie?

My name?

My clothes?

My friends?

My guy?

Insensitive is the world,

is fate that batters me so,

I feel I could cry or spit or die!

insensitive? Not I.

Daydream

In my fantasy I am

in the supermarket. I am strutting in

from the parking lot, my mile-long legs and neat

French-tipped toenails peeking

out of perfectly fabulous high-heeled shoes,

and my hair is impossibly shiny

and bounces in that gravity-defying just-left-the-salon kind of way.

My boobs look great and my skin isn’t too dry or too oily

and as I draw a shopping cart from the corral, I am confidently sliding off

my Jackie O sunglasses with a dramatic toss of my head,

the automatic doors parting before me.

I am a goddess. (She has no idea what she’s up against.)

I am reaching for this week’s circulator

dignified manicured fingers perusing for the sale paper towels

when there she is, over in Produce

studying two green bell peppers

as though, in this moment, they were all that mattered.

I am not distressed or disturbed. I am perfectly

rational. Here, in this fantasy supermarket Produce section, I am

collecting my thoughts, collecting myself.

I am collecting the years and collecting the promises

collecting the memories and precious intimate moments,

amassing heaps and piles of precarious evidence

that he is still my husband.

I am collecting all the frightened hopes I might have had for this marriage

and placing them carefully into a box.

I am trying not to think that she is doing the same.

I am telling you this because I want you to understand that

twenty years ago I might have walked away from the both of them

when I was headstrong and naïve and not too keen on sharing his attention.

You probably think I am weak for not fighting but I have learned over the years that

fighting is useless when you stand to lose everything.

In this moment, I am silent and I am reverent

I am beautiful and deserving

I have given him my whole life and I hope it is enough.

I am telling you about my fantasy so that you can understand.

Please do not tell my husband that I know his secret.

it happened so long ago did it happen? i was scared, i didn't know and you, you didn't want to know how could you ve so cruel leaving me all alone? so now, i have just a haunted haunting memory of white coats and empty arms

Fellowship

The hardest part was pretending
I didn’t know your secret.
Working days and nights
for weeks and months, a fellowship
corroding a marriage.
Leaving you at home
without a car, in a town
neither of us knew,
two chubby babies,
and Windows 97.
The hardest part was leaving you
pretending I didn’t know
how lonely you would be.

Perfection

A collision of perfection

    in form, mind and motion

This moment - a hero is born

A conscious composition of expression:

Brows furrowed, nostrils flared, eyes focused.

His face - like the tendons of his neck -

    displays tension.

But his stance reveals calmness

born from confidence

and like his story – it is classic

Steady hands, strong shoulders, precision

These tools capture a moment

    which defies all expectations

    and the laws of time

In a split second

Inspiration bears transformation

From bravery - action

From ‘Il Gigante’ –a hero

From the hands of the master-

A piece of history

A legend depicting strength in body and will

A perfect soul – chisled into stone.

Message from a Bottle

The line was cast; gracefully tumbling down in slow motion, sounds muffled and distorted, body paralyzed, holding on, watching, waiting for the inevitable.

The tip of a silver-white glistening fin emerges; all is calm for but a moment. Then the wash of a scarlet wave, entrancing and beautiful, bewitches the senses.

Real time resumes as the spell dissipates and reality sets in as my little black shoe fills with blood. I try to hold pressure on the dorsal wound, but can’t help but take a peek at the radiant silver shine, transiently visible before it hides again behind a red veil of liquid.

Eventually, the tide wanes, leaving behind a shallow pool caught between two dunes of skin. The brilliant shine is lost beneath a desiccating puddle of murk. Soon all that remains is a pathetic layer of rusty mud. Tendons were not meant to be seen.

A wash of saline lifts the rust to the surface, allows the glistening silver-white to return to its full glory. I wiggle my toes and watch the bright light dance on the surface of the dorsal fin. Short-lived glory, the dunes collapse with the help of some twine forever burying the magnificent argent sheen beneath a mound of tawny skin. Tendons are not meant to be seen.

My Sad Vagina

My vagina is sad. It is. It’s dejected. My vagina’s depressed and it doesn’t want to talk. What is there to talk about? How the world hates it

abuses it

confuses it

enters it without permission

takes advantage of it because it has less upper body strength

Is that what you want it to talk about? How people throw acid at it

Sell it

tell it what to do

cut it’s face off

treat it like it’s a minority or less of a human being when it populates half the world

There. You got it talking about what’s on its mind.

How it’s afraid to open up because it’s afraid to let anyone in

How it bears witness to torture

To evil

How the world finds a way to minimize the appearance of this evil

What has my vagina ever done to you? But bear you

Take care of you

Feed you

Nurture you

It is sad because it lives in this fear

And because it’s world comes crashing down whenever it is reminded of this reality

My vagina is depressed because it wants this nightmare to end

But doesn’t believe it ever will

The Perfect Hand

I can always count on my right hand.
It's always there when I need it.
Even through times of exhaustion
My hand still persists.

It writes on its own
Similar to the way a mother raises a child on her own.
It holds a pen with security and stability
The way a mother would hold her child.

It's a hardworking hand.
Not like my left hand.

Dependable and reliable is my right hand
Sort of like a Honda vehicle.
It drives me through the most difficult times.
I am very proud of my right hand.

Me and My Old Back

Warm air, cool breeze, setting sun.

Beautiful birds with exotic sounds.

Sweet coconut aroma blends with vibrant colors of flowers and people at ease.

My old geriatric back doesn’t feel so bad on this fine evening the tropics!

He is a rock that has supported me my whole life,

I never really even notice him until he started getting old.

What a poor excuse for a name his parents gave him… “Back”

Its like naming your anterior musculature, connective tissue and organs your “front”

What makes him even harder to understand is that he really doesn’t talk so much.

Remember falling off that wall with a rifle and the 20 kilo pack!

While my prima donna ankle, wouldn’t stop wining until they gave her luxury titanium screws, a breathable cast, and morphine, my back didn’t ask for anything!

While she recovered completely, he just kept on trudging along.

Now he’s old and mumbles complaints here and there.

On any other day people just tune him out as an old grump, but on this fine evening in the tropics he is quiet and peaceful!

Atlas

Once you were a tool for me to use.
Now I know how much more you are.
Confidence exudes from you.

My only defender from the world, from myself, from...
You show me my strength.

When I use you I am never careless.
I think about you all the time.
My partner, my tool, my escape.

You help me
You try so hard not to give out
As you strain to hold up the world.

I know almost everything about you,
and you about me.
You show me my strength.

How could I come so far without you,
My friend?

Once a machine that I abused,
Never again.

You show me the place I love,
The place I know well,
The place where all things are clear,
Where it is all so pure.

Like chess we challenge each other,
You sometimes win.
But my plotting is omnipresent.

I would hold you up if I could, like you have held me.
Like you have held others,
Like you have held the world.
You show me my strength.

baiser

Lithe and light

quick, don't bite!

Flickering as a flame

warm me with breath

slowly -- now faster

parry and weave and

linger

stop.

And then begin again

from left corner to front

a writhing wriggling salmon

colored motile hunk of flesh.

Attached at the back, but lo the tip

the taste and the texture

sings as a whip whistling

through the space opened, by

parting

linger

and dart and dive

softly -- now stronger

delight me with touch,

glide as a gull

Lithe and light

quick, just right.

Sister

You wait patiently, loosely veiled
beneath a thin cotton gown. Gravity
has softened your profile, ripening
your bold curves like a sweet and heavy plum.

Twice gravid adipose suspends soft
and fluid like warm honey. A rosy
hillock ascends modestly from your
apex, subtly indenting the course fabric.

Like you, she was beautiful. You shared
everything - the electric pleasure of a caress,
the dull, aching fullness of new
motherhood. This was your purpose -

two comfortable slings of soft tissue
that built a life together
never whispering of malignancy.
No one ever accused you

of being an only child, until now.
Still you are pendulous and proud.
You must be strong for both of you.
Still I can tell that you miss her.

Her absence is no secret.
Oblique and pink and slightly raised
her seaming skin bulges
above a bald hill of silastic.

When I saw your sister last,
bathed in brilliant white
lights and draped in virgin blue
a gowned pallbearer dropped her

proud flesh into a polyethylene coffin.
The droning silence of the room is broken
by the knell of his voice as he names her
right breast, eight hundred six grams

True Light

Someone once told me that by looking into somebody’s eyes you can see that person’s true character, their experiences and if you look close enough their soul.

An eye is a window to one’s perception. It looks so simple on the outside, little, round globe, with milky white cornea, clear sclera and unique colored iris, and a simple black dot in the middle representing the pupil. However the complexity inside is fascinating. Retina, fovea, macula, millions of rods and cones, synapses, optic nerve, artery and vein are all hidden from a naked eye of a stranger, purposely not to show its true self. Thus the eye can be very misleading, looking like an innocent child on the outside yet being mysterious within.

Functions of the eye are as simple as opening and closing it, constricting or dilating the pupil, as well as being able to see the world as it appears in front of you. But in reality there is so much more to it. When one opens his/her eyes an overwhelming wave of information is being perceived. Ones experiences are being registered in a computer network of the brain with the help of the eye’s perception. Our little friend re-adjusts itself in the dark, hungry for information around it forcing its pupil to create a big black hole. But then being an imbecile or possibly a genius makes pinpoint black dots in response to too much light/information or in response to a euphoric state of mind caused by a voluntary madness.

An eye never lies; it won’t support a fake lip expression unless the feelings are real. One can only try to cover it with layers of shadows, but in the end it is only superficial. An eye is a soldier that will fight till the end for its true character to come out. The eye sees what it sees, it is an uncontrollable sponge for information, and it does not sensor what comes through it. It is a tsunami that captures everything in its way. Now I can only sit and wonder how can such an amateur on the outside be so glorious and indispensable within?

Dark undulating waters of the ocean,

Beckon with the silent cries of horror,

Ophidians of ivory in the moonlight,

For the coming genocide has been foretold,

Death row for warriors of kinsmen,

Five days of suffocating struggle,

Murderers like Nano-guillotines,

An epic massacre again forgotten

Bella! Horrida bella!