When you leave,
when you’re away,
off sailing on aquamarine seas,
I think of your ruby sculpted
lipstick and
listen to Neko Case
by myself, alone in the human
darkness.
Does this make me a lesbian?
Month: March 2017
I found myself looking for people
when
the world had locked them away
and privatized them.
Put them in beige boxes to do
their work everyday from
eight a.m. to five o’clock p.m.
Placed them in orderly housing,
turned on the TV for them to
stare into and
handed them bills and mortgages
to adhere to.
Driving their Ford trucks and Chevy’s.
I looked in the forests,
over grasslands,
under real skies, clean air,
with the ancestral stars at night.
I looked and no one was there,
learning the anthem of the cosmos,
the form
of the human
that is being,
the kind of consciousness suspended
in time.
No,
I looked and they were watching TV.
And while you were sleeping,
the door to the sky
came open.
While you
negotiated your job title,
watched television,
paid on your mortgage,
went down to the store.
The door to the sky.
The door to the sky!
. . . Made many people wealthy
as they colluded with the
pontificates of being,
shipping your dreams and
your genetics
off to the arching, elliptical sky.
I look through the doorway
into the next room.
There are billion stars between me
and that next room.
Things and ways that I do not see.
But I’m a human being on Earth,
I know everything I know
because of my senses.
I trust them.
They’re efficient.
They’re logical.
They’re accurate.
I am righteous
and if I’m not, then I can rely on
the consciousness of others and
words written in scripture.
I can persecute.
Though lest I know not,
I do not see these billion stars
between me and the next room,
the wooden floor
that extends out in linear perspective,
the ports of time,
there, away from me
in the silence of the dark house
at night.
You left me laying on the bed
with the dildo.
Darkness had fallen
and all the lights were off.
I woke up naked
and alone.
My mouth was dry.
The quiet desert sat outside the
hotel room.
A thirsty sparrow chirped in the
distance.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
When the twilight was falling
American soldiers took their babies.
. . . for babies must be taken . . .
Whose babies?
Where babies?
Babies gooby goo-goo?
Do people still need babies?
When the war against the Arabs started
Americans hid their babies.
This baby.
My baby.
Cannot babies live subterranean?
They are very tiny diggers.
Teensy tiny, dig, dig.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
Fruit in the night
by my solitary self
is freedom
the nationed ones cannot know
the nationed ones look to windows
to know
counting through filters
what one is to be told
revive the baptisms of the satellites
the nationless does know
the fruit in the night
and
what love can spell
how love knows to hold bones
or tell them
the truth of
what home is
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
When I’m a white person
I go on vacation
where I pet horses.
These are the horses the locals use
to plow their crops.
I think they’re beautiful and special.
Both, the locals and their horses.
For a moment,
I remember the color of the beige walls
back in our living room
and how we need to update
the light fixtures.
Does the penis not justify itself?
The vagina not command its own river?
And the person who possesses both
is illegitimate in the paradigm of
black and white.
You go down to the store
and buy some more black and white.
They’re getting married.
They’re doing something that’s never done.
They’re having children.
They’re approaching pinnacles of life.
They’re buying batteries.
They’re doing what anyone can do.
They’re doing nothing.
They’re fixing food in the microwave.
They have a job.
They’re alone.
They’re sometimes cowards.
They impress management.
It’s not their fault.
They’re doing nothing.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
novamartinpoetry.com 