The senses are yours to compose a world of beauty with the might of your mind.
Contents
. repose . recoil . rigour . resplendence
Recoil
to retract
to quickly refute
to perform disapproval
HIT IT
Deadly drops disdained
kneecaps to floorboard
at green and blue inducing speeds
bleeding out in salt-baths
with sweat from the eyes
in an attempt to extract his
egotistic pride
all fours out the pours
how the hell
does anyone dare ever ask why
when we know — how cowardly
and morally insufficient
an expectation from a date
to repay with bodies
there’s no romance in
booming an object
not even barely scraping bottom
but claiming an assumption
no one has any thing to lose
is a point where some time
life will find
no more reasons or excuse
to respond with love
to the birth of new life
instead of the ignorance
of strife.
THE ALL ONE TRAP
Figuring out the I or me is not the
was to became or am
some kind of cyclic game
of gnostic misanthropy
so if I’m not the me and you’re no the you
then who
do we own our responsibility to?
some kind of rhetoric paving imaginary streets
where garbage blows about freely
in the something of not a me
that carries the delight of songbird flight
that doesn’t exist unless in reference to a tree
how many more metaphors can we
weave our way into each others skin
as those past, present, and future
soils are comprised in being
not this or that but everything all at once
and yet not at all and always never and forever
until what a trip
we’d better get back home
and avoid the solipsism of self help
and short circuited soils
diluting our souls.
TRAPPED
Droplet dotted windshield view wide
with faint murmur of a creeping
anticipatory sigh
I just drive
my foot put on lockdown
inhaling an earthy lung charring steam
weaving through lanes of
intermittent illumination
I can see from within
I’m clouded
and in the dark
I can see the volume at which
a frustrated mind shrieks
pick one
a route
that can’t be taken
not yet how could we
move into that way just yet
without being
allows a bit of space
a horn and light and yet
we the entrapped
don’t get anywhere in life.
TIMES UP
A folding chair creaks
and tucked away are memories
of dreams too feared for existence
they bulge at the seams
as lightly lined irises gleam
under a hidden din of
just enough sleep
to keep up
while wearing down
through a disco of directional dissonance
levelled by a demeanour and
bland ho-hum experiences
amplified in well made nauseation
a numb
deafeningly silent enough
to succumb
to try on
being in love
with a fight
round a ring
a dance knocking toe taps
at the very least
to every beat, a chance
of the vague possibility
to rationalise a stance
pushed that way tight on a dare
to tango I bet we all thought
it was easier than that
to focus on a comfort
in structure
to sequester a cry
for the triumphant
bet obliged
the rounds only last so far past sun down
there’s just a bit of time now
before the alarm commands
up and at the whatever
you said yes to yesterday.
PLATONIC FORMS IN THE WIND
The sort of Sunday afternoon napping comfort blew
in gusts and rolling blue-hued grey moisture puffs
tipped my nose into such winds
closed lidded I stood, grappling for grounding
the directions fickle
making a mess of tangled strands
of lengthening brown
can't quite touch what may be signs
so holding up a licked finger
doesn't seem so sanitary anyway
there must be another way to read this wind
in such a situation I’ve allowed myself to get nestled in
requesting a detailed explanation
unbinding
embracing
change without a leash
wafting through an undermining society
I see no benefit in the dominance hierarchies
since there’s an unknown experience to set off into
where known issues are addressed
and small sacrifices of focus are made
to benefit the rest
I’m always amazed how much can magnetically be done
by grazing the hand that which extremity touches
that felt the beat of violence at the hand of ignorance
and a silence
vibrating from internal forms in our landscapes
commonly characterised by smoothly rounded
kindergarten cut out shapes.
SPRING COLOURED SKIN
The winding bike path I take
transforms my sight momentarily into
the image of a mountainous Colorado view
an escape from an SUV landscape
screaming so loud, get the hell, outa here!
in that momentarily hostile nature
drawn from a wind whipping my cheek skin
into buttery softness
deep within
I long for someone to feel
later or soon this experience
instead of some technological messages
jarring in screens
meandering thoughts
I really scream now to put to an end to
screeching – halt - stop!
time mobile palm device interface
has no place
in my ever expanding sense of space
soaking in the vitamin D
pumping intravenously
sitting in traffic
I’m sipping on that which feeds this body
and replenishes this mind
now is no better time
than yesterday’s
so hesitate shall we not
to drop the misery
and let transformation
begin.
NO APOLOGIES
Worshipping practicality, preferring straight lines
builds muscle easily loves to loathe Charles Bukowski
packs two months stay in a bag
libido like a cat in heat
with the persistence of a nun on a mission
believes men better take some responsibility
and just stop just talking about
figuring your shit out —
is this what we permit as a man?
an adolescent in wrinkling skin?
no way does such banality fly with me
no apologies, or patience
for sorries without change anymore.
These re but a few simple things
yet there’s always more
than whatever perfume and soft skin
applies towards appreciating
domestic aptitudes
anyone with heart
has a soft spot for puppies
and babies
and if not a vase of flowers
maybe just a petal or two.
WEATHERMAN
The drop their heads back
gaping-pointed fingers to the sky
taking sharp breaths in
relieved in sighs of wonderment
is that nature's display of soft cumulous clouds
floating delicate and strong
but deeper than mind paid to surface awe
there more if you’ll go further willing to grasp
at the inquisition to attain
a thorough understanding
of what creates the show —
as my grief for superficial state of affairs subsides
I’m able to see quite plainly now
how sweet a man who grows an affinity for
life bonds with nature through
meteorological enlightenment
a deeper kind of love than say
mere infatuation or lust
within each of us, is a weatherman in wait
taking interests in how clouds know
which way to go
or the purity of droplets as they kiss our cheeks
binding our histories
to the story of our lands
we lay beneath the books
some hands
have yet to write.
STANCE
The orange sun did set in my dreams played last night
and I just missed the moment for the perfect photographed
frame-able picturesque sight
settling for the video type memory
I keep rewinding, fast forwarding
the play in my head knowing
to make wear on the image
til they jump, fuzz, and fade
this afternoon I decided to make new motion pictures
watching the cross-alley door banging in the wind
amidst the dead still is all around us now
characterised and brought to life
by half sorts of smiles mustered
isolated we turned to our sides
side so no one sees my cries
and upon paths I make doubt
blocks hindering my strides
in making all sorts of connections and plans
they were so beautiful, yes
peaceful and realistically attainable
lending themselves to hope
not only selfishly but in offering humanity a hand
in the pursuit of each sun rise
a day comes no companion can
comfort the uncomfortable stance
of knowing we are each our own.
FLIP FLOP TANK TOPS
painted toes slide to and fro
skimming over TV screen fuzz blur pavement
my denim pants actually fit
they don't dare drag
on this grey day
quietly illuminated by eyes
abundantly rested
cheap coffee tastes so well
when appetite for chewing is nil
if only I had a sprinkle of cinnamon spice
my pockets would feel rich
by a soil stabbed with miracle grow
my green has made way
for blooms of orange, red, and yellow.
KEEP
My heart hollowed,
been scooped out by you.
all for a meaning,
that can never be one
to understand.
conceived with hope,
devised of a plan,
once believed rightfully true,
unjustified by an emptiness-
followed by a longing
for a shared embrace.
time to fill the space.
pour in me truth.
please remove-the
weight of doubt lingering.
when potential
for something
so unbelievably tangible,
dangles in view.
still within reach.
keep.
SAID AND DONE ANOTHER
So my guys’ friend comes by from time to time
respectable and dear
claims he be allergic to time
so I demand
he "just stick it to me, what on earth you mean?”
as inquirer seems to fit my skin
better than the grommeted black band
I forgot was left on my wrist
he looks sideways
wondering and shakes his mop
I see not so much the accessories are unworthy of trusting
but if he claims he’s not drinking
as a means of peaceable living
his lies are vies for my eyes
I just let fly
and offer the taste of ideas born of
tick-tock around the clocks fasting
to revel in the vibrancy of pulse beats formed
by letting our organs breath
so I have still not his answer to his detestation for time
and I witness him in my sober
hidden behind our shaggy hairdos
and I turn my back
to the lie for the truth
my guy is sweating booze
dripping like he knows he’s in luck
knowing better
than to hold onto those pants
I wore a dress
as we would dance
and phone lies won’t work
when there’s a real dance
with our chances.
© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.
Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL III.
First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.
The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.
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