poet on fire

For thirty years, the undertaker speaks

at our funerals

someday we’ll need to find someone

to remember him too

well practiced, he eloquently tells

truth everyone knows

this high mountain valley

teems with God’s dirt

these mountain people

are the salt of that dirt

the surrounding mountains

build men’s character

the farms and ranches nestled

beneath steep slopes

raise strong wholesome crops, cattle

and traditional children

that this valley makes a safe harbor

from cities and crime

we are peaceful people unburdened

by world sins and loose morals

clean white snow caps above us

reflect our purity

our abundant lakes reward us

for living quietly

being born, living and dying here

is a smart choice

you can buy a Ford or Chevy without

leaving the valley

Indians are a fortunate people because

we often tolerate them

any Government not headquartered here

cannot be trusted

our abundant rivers and streams belong

to us, not them

the socialists who run America

don’t belong here

we are right and they

are wrong.

Paco, I am missing you

even though I can’t drink wine anymore

not even on your porch at 2 AM

and it has been forever since I smoked

and do you remember the night

when we were smoking out back

and Kate arrived and you were

so sure to inform her that you

did not seduce me into that cigarette

and you did not!—though I must admit

that a part of the cigarette’s pull

involved  a beautiful woman

who performed on stage in grace

and who smiled dark magic—

a remarkable thing that stirred me

the way your memory stirs me now.

(Source: titotitus)

titotitus:

The dead people don’t say anything.  They just lie around the

shopping mall, wishing they wore clean underwear that day.  The

gun with the hot barrel didn’t even know what happened.  It just felt

good, shooting off that way. In the following days, Arizona gun sales

soared higher than the sweet desert sun.

Boom boom boom.

Can’t get enough

of that bang bang stuff.

Boom boom boom.

Gotta get more

Gotta get down

to the bang bang store.

Boom boom boom.

Gotta get a bang bang

Gotta get a gun

Gotta be a hero

Have some fun.

Boom boom boom.

Holster on my hip

looks real neat

Gotta get a gun,

pack some heat

A little bit of bang bang

can’t be beat.

Boom boom boom.

Gotta get guns

Gotta get a lot

Gotta make bang bang

In a parking lot.

Boom boom boom.

Gotta hear the bang bang

Gotta hear it loud

Gotta make a bang bang

In a big crowd.

Boom boom boom.

Boom boom boom

Boom boom boom

Can’t get enough

Of that bang bang stuff.

Boom boom boom.

Boom boom boom.

Boom boom boom.

NOTES:

1.    During the days following the attempted assassination of Democratic Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and the murder of several others on January 8, 2011 gun sales in Arizona spiked.

2.    The assassination/murder weapon was a Glock 23. In August, 2011, not yet eight months later, the Republican Party of Pima County, Arizona (in which Tucson is located) raffled a Glock 23 which, according to news reports, was “highly successful”. During the months prior to the armed assault on Congresswoman Giffords and a dozen others, former Governor Sarah Palin maintained a website which depicted a gun telescope-sight aimed at Giffords’ district as well as others.

3. In view of the recent Connecticut tragedy, this poem is regretfully posted once again.

 

The moon is a sow
and grunts in my throat
Her great shining shines through me
so the mud of my hollow gleams
and breaks in silver bubbles

She is a sow
and I a pig and a poet

When she opens her white
lips to devour me I bite back
and laughter rocks the moon

In the black of desire
we rock and grunt, grunt and
shine

~~DENISE LEVERTOV

(Source: poetfire)

Having just passed another milestone in Poet on Fire history, the celebration begins. For 24 or so hours the ask box is open.  A rare opportunity if there ever was one. So put it in there. Eh?

~Poet on Fire

(Source: poetfire)

square tongues   speak brick words

         that couple into nothing,

         surrounded by hair and flowers.

decay of fruit and love and sex,

         all subside

                                             into chemical contemplation,

                  alcohol and buzzing bees,

                    sweet sticky scents.

                              police machines  chop the sky                                   

                              into thistles of noise and fear—

I pick up and carry a river on my back,

a cloak of home

                    to drape across

                           the shoulders of the world,

                            enfolding streams and stones.

glaze of bone

across my eyes,

a hood of silence,

  my tongue of salt

  dissolving into words

  I speak to you.

http://www.scottezell.org/

Sometimes I am the old man

that lives in the apartment

at the end of the hall

dim faux crystal lights

spread a weak yellow hue

over the thin red carpet

stretched over old wood

not polished in years.

Sometimes on a Saturday

or Friday night young

men or women knock

on my door my pale door

holding wine or beer in

stemmed glasses and blue

cans inviting me to party.

Sometimes I politely say

no thank you and thank

you for so kindly thinking

of me the end of the hall

returning to my chair

smudged window and music

watching the sun set.

~~Tito Titus

(Source: poetfire)

There is a murderer
on the seventh floor
he showers
the water heater drains

every day

outside my window
it has been raining

for a long time.

~Tito Titus

(Source: poetfire)