Heavenly Hell

Could be the center of Hell, the final

circle is a singularity.  His face

 

drips of disappointment when he looks

at her. He put her on the highest shelf

 

to protect her. As they say, out of sight,

—————->out of mind.  She is

 

one who digs so deeply with words—

the grammar changes their meaning—

 

making her mindful.  Everything she says

means something different to every-

 

body.  Every single body knows that simple healing

 

touch can seem like a terrifying black hole swallowing

endlessly into an oblivion no words could mean.  The prophets

 

got it wrong, that’s why there is no event horizon

in Dante’s circles—people

assumed the wrong direction of Hell.

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Goddesses Get Weary of Pedestals

And if I were to be placed on a pedestal

and had a choice what image is seen

 

gleaming in all the glory pedestals, or glass

houses, have to offer I would choose

 

Danaid (we know she was no

goddess) with that serpentine splendorous

 

marble spine, eyes spying upward over

my left shoulder so it seems my eyes slit

 

shut.  I know they aren’t.  I would be placed

prone on stone

 

next to Demeter’s Divine Child, trying

to regain a supine view forever.  Oh now

 

Envy, the bag overflows for greed advertising

the next great Thing people have to have but

 

should live without—poor women

make in locked buildings forced

 

to meet the quota, before the whole building

collapses on them—bought as a gift for children

 

to celebrate the day Christendom became

a conception.  There is a reason modern man

 

is constantly looking down.

It is certainly not to just look

 

at their cell phones.  Danaid can see why

over her left shoulder.

Woman Hiding in White Is the Lonely Other

Muse, tell me the cause: how was she offended in her divinity,

how was she grieved, the Queen of Heaven, to drive a man,

noted for virtue, to endure such dangers, to face so many

trials? Can there be such anger in the minds of the gods?

                        Virgil~ Aeneid

 

 

Ah, I see the ever Hopeless Romantic—that hermit in

its own flesh—chooses flesh and sweat to be

 

the washing of our sins with mortal ties.  It

is the hopelessness of romantic plans I am

 

sick of having.  Do you forget the instructions

sung out over catgut through an open window you

 

passed by or do you just prefer that old dark bird

call?  We both remember Athena, she was a goddess

 

walking the pallid, pale, spearmint-green Panoptic halls

through which she and I once grew.  I didn’t want the word

 

Poet to rattle my bones and nauseate my belly. Back then, I

still had faith in the Republic because it feared what I feared

 

I was the most.  Have no doubt, to be feared is to be

something, even with the constant drawbacks.  So they say,

 

something is better than nothing: to be truly

Untouchable. The Capital always will kill

 

off original thoughts to keep itself going. Man, yes, you

forgot what you lose with Capital Gain.  I am always

 

the obedient slave who has to steal bread.  So take my whole

right arm, instead of just the hand.  What is

 

left is mine.  I promise to use it wisely.

The Landscape of Dis Is Not Dissimilar to Erie

There’s no divinity here, here, there,

or there.  Look around!  Everything!  Everything

 

decays, even the building your dying body is caged

in will crumble like a Mosque shot down with our

 

own drones.  Clones of demons coming as radio

fliers: they almost look like a child’s toy.  It is not even

 

in the place in between here and there that anything

 

divine reins.  God is just

an extension of oneself.  Unfortunately

 

stupidity rules the roost, as they say, so people

fractionate off into various fractal forms of inept

 

life. Trafficking for evil—also known as Money,

in the land of Modernity—from spiritual things, charting

 

their own circles leading them down the earth.  People erect

mausoleums to keep the end neat—shiny marble tidy

without dirt, outside debris, most of all no

 

worms, no maggots—the insects always find a way

in though.  The comedy: ultimate irony. There’s nothing

 

but tragedy because of voices being silenced by their own ignorant

shortcomings.  In order to live, one must learn civil coping

 

mechanisms.  Lacking the fortitude, I’m no angel, but others have said

as much.  If I am an angel it’s one of fallen grace

 

left guarding the walls of my city with fervent

fury—never letting anyone in.  That is unless,

 

of course, their exquisite heartache

matches that of mine.  The monumental

 

moment a foot steps forward, once

the walls have been blown away as broken

 

bits, the entire known world changes forever

to some far off place in Africa where the ground

 

underneath all feet is burning, no

girl is ever left to be innocent making her Mama’s heart

 

heavy and hollow with ashes on the forehead of love

passing on.  Burning always.  Burning.

 

Virgil Is Not the Guide Here

But my dear grotesque love, you know

the heart—especially what it wants—means

 

nothing to the landscape. Sometimes

when we forget, we are sentenced to the chaotic

spiral of an everlasting sink hole. Repeating cycle

 

after cycle, like the wash cycle and the rinse cycle

in a machine that makes nothing clean, rather it just moves

 

dust around. Oblivion is constant falling

without the ability to unlean what falling really means

 

when you stop, knowing nothing of what to expect

when stopped.  The living knows loss. Even the dead eyed

 

are lost to their real feelings.  It’s agreed

emotions aren’t abstract, just unknowable.  I fear

 

forgetfulness, so let’s not fail to recall that it is no

myth man removes mountains, lights underground

 

fires, and kills the deepest sea

Oar Fish with radioactivity from Fukushima.  Styx is safer

 

to swim in.  Human beings as a species have learned

nothing because they always forget. Greed and gluttony scar

 

the mountains more than love could ever restore.  In a world

where black coke dust is clean, who are the real sinners?

Beginning Steps of Standing Strong

disdainfulbeauty

I.                   The Act of Telling

That neglected, abused girl

has grown into a woman, a virile

bodhisattva of the earth, now

she’s something more

a kin to the need

in conversation to digress, while keeping

record of metaphors.  White paper covered in

lines and lines of scribbled smudges

from some sweet ditty, a shushed

scream, all that sobbing

acts like the crutch keeping her

standing.  Even if she’s limping,

bloodied and beaten, she always

stands.  Sleeping through all this is not

an option.  Memory behaves as tutor

developing the disciple of man’s

languages, most of them dead

and mostly forgotten.  She knows the rain,

leaning against every said meaning, looking

for the unasked questions in the pursuit of  roots.  Thus

illustrates the need for questions in a time that is

demanding of the mindless.  Utterance is

what is

necessary.        Voice is a constant                  organic thing.

II.               

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Where is Raul Zurita in the Gem City?

disdainfulbeauty

Over the cliffs of the hillside: the sun

then below in the valley

the earth covered with flowers

Zurita enamored friend

takes in the sun of photosynthesis

Zurita will now never again be friend

since 7P.M. it’s been getting dark.

 

Night is the insane asylum of the plants

                                    from Sunday Morning

~ Raul Zurita (trans. Anna Deeny)

This place where poets carve poems
out of slabs of brown and grey marbled

ice knows nothing of deserts

rich in copper wealth, nor anything about rich
fertile earth where exotic grows from trees, but it shares

the same misery as the narrow strip of land possessing

the bounty of volcanos and lakes. There is a lake here
too, but it’s not one of South American beauty

suffering from stupidity of human

rights violations. Our lake has a wealth of atrocious
human history too. There is a snowy Caravan of Death,

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