Poetry / December 2015 (Issue 30)

Two Poems

by Rey Escobar


June is the ideal month to abolish the crisis of self, and put into effect
January’s hibernating vicious of clarity - that self act of admitting one's
Juvenile denials xylophoned day after day,          and from
July-to-December, an occupied self-absorption crammed thirsty for a
Just-caused yearning, that jigsaw self in need of form       and joss
Jigsaw self looking for that ideal joint
Joint of bone-to-ziggurat ossification
Joint of June 12th.
June, midnight. In the sofa, grace slicked and juked
Jettisoned-feeling like a self rejoicing jailbird, a weeping prophet of
Jail's lament. I am freed.
Jailbird, walking free and listening to the white rabbit's song
Job redeemed.                     Jump of heart's beat, deep within, a humming
Jaybird wood pecking                                  a primal scream.


To a person on acid, the beautiful is intensely beautiful and the ugly is hideous. (Rae Armatrout from True)
In out of the blue and me asking
   Is it really better to burn out            than to fade away?

The picture starts: six, five, four, three
   a split second fade from the counting
      to black, two, one.                                   Total black.

Blackness layered atop blackness.
   A swarm of pipes flutter then fade.
      The divination with twigs begins.

Begins in a slow, free, formative measure
   a part of a familial tune implored.

Implored augury, the young taps, no, hammers
   their feet in a syncopated motif.

A hobbling half, half woman, half beast
   in the middle of their circle implores
      the earth.

Earthen, from the measure, chords of strings
   begin to strum, with woodwinds and horns
      like a horde of drums

   Drum, pound, quarrel.

Awakened, a stubborn cello plucks.
   Astral projection, against the whole plot
      he plucks.

Plucks, a heart spirited and searching
   but knock-kneed.

Knock-kneed to his muse and with his head
   bent toward the ground, he eyes

Eyes raised outward and toward the ethereal
   the ethereal like a charmed snake

Snakes. A stitched mouth and tongue
   flickers for the moisture of spring

He starves
   and for a moment, the discord repeats
      a back and forth.

Rivals through accents and textured quaver.

I hear a short respite breath, the cello quivers
   his last pluck.

Suddenly a double fist slams and marks
   its territorial ground.

To accept sacrifice, a rite must be oppressive
   a vital force beseeched by the etheric.

The abduction is not a detainment
   but a high pitch trill over a violent theme.

Should we evoke our ancestors when we are muted
   by a false vanguard cause?

After all the sounds died, I read a take on the classic
   American concept

I wanted the virgin that I married, who had my children and stayed at home.
Then I discovered that I was a whore. So I decided I wanted a whore
Who can understand me. (Dennis Hopper, from The American Dreamer)

Who can understand me
      In hard blue eyes, a loss and despair.
         A blue velvet day that ebbs weary, worn out.

         Worn out, out of a cloud’s white cut stem, a gusty wind
            winds hoary. Out of myth and her white mouth
                white stubble breeze
                    breezes by

                        and by

                             thin coats a tarnish silver.

Silver, her nylon colds the taste

      Taste every day as a beaten day, as a scrambled
        old removed unsheltered day.

           Day unsheltered, day of blues scale lull that
              seats itself withdrawn.

                 Withdrawn, lull at the breakfast table
                    repeating itself to a lull.

                         A lull. A bottle cap twist sound lull.
                           Lull fizzles. It is Sunday.
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