Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
Learned how to be a “valuable” worker
in a free-market economy.
Also learned to be a “team player”.
Did not learn to reject
the free-market economy
because that upsets
everyone else
still stuck
in the sham show shit scam mess.
This has a 99.9% chance
of being your postscript.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
You move on me, not like a mirror,
but like daylight.
A dying man’s life was really a day,
one long day of life:
watch the sky open, watch the sky close.
This cloudscape belongs above Montana.
You step in me, not like mud,
but like river:
unlike the cat chase of Mohenjo-Daro,
unlike the Martian meteorites.
The turquoise from the jewelry-makers of God
I take from your eyes
and hold onto the colors of day.
There: life is frozen.
O Antarctica, only you have beaten time,
or so
the foreign-exchange students
from the mermaid-lands
have told me.
I love you, football, tender, tender.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)
The commodity-discriminate-hospital
on purpose a backing of the
commodity-segregate-economic-system.
A champion, a prized artifice of war,
the ruler-commodity-hierarchal
of the only-thing-holy
commodity-segregate-system.
The commodity-sad-emotions and
commodity-bored&tired-spending
keep you in check,
not thinking outside of your
commodity-place-where-they-need-to-be-kept-those-people.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Antipoémus (poetry book)
“I’m
gonna sit here
and
drink
my canned soda
until
my liver
makes me
bored.”
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)
He can punt like a motherfucker.
Jared can throw it far.
I got the size,
you got the power.
When is Marcus going to get his car?
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
We received clothing from a factory.
It was our first winter.
We ate meat out of cans.
It had all come from so far away.
Who knew about this technology?
Who knew anything anymore?
Tomorrow we set out across the plains
to find our next employer.
Our first winter has come to an end.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Grandmother is going shopping
for things in Costco®.
Palenque is in Costco®,
Mexico and Italy as well
are also in Costco®.
The days do not end.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Chase the hills in Mexico,
followed the tones of your skin into shadows,
by the morning the sun was there
all eyes were open
and the beaches bartered eternity,
I reached for a tortilla.
The moss and mold hid, then fell apart
underneath
the eyes of the onward looking directors of Universe.
Afternoon cascaded down your legs
dribble dribble
and my head feels so good,
I smell the old plants,
let me eat the oranges in a still room,
god damn, I am an old man.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
At the Center For Questionable Thought
we waited on a delivery,
while waiting we chatted, talked,
watched the sun go down over the
fields outside the windows,
it bleached the air with some sort of electricity
that was orange
and it excited us and the insects out in the fields too.
We drank a couple beers, held their tastes,
smelled the smell of the old place,
I do recall a smell of dank linoleum.
We also did a bunch of filing of papers and organizing
all the boxes by their months and years.
We waited for the deliveries
and were congenial with each other as we did,
as we were inside that structure.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
They let him go
when he was young and dying of cancer,
drifting through outer-space
they let him go,
the last people’s race of people
didn’t own him,
floating past nationalism and liberty
as cancer an eternalness created
archetypes of the sufferer,
the fear of the shadow,
just the vessel of the genome,
we lift you up to the cluster,
the ridge of stars.
Child without childhood
reaches for your fingers,
the seven wrinkles,
your chance to perceive things
but it ran away with the forms and
words of humanness,
just the vessel of the genome,
information is transferable
in
this
standing in a field before a 7-11®,
a parent kisses their child at college
in Kansas.
They got to go to college,
wave, wave . . . waves
but wave to the abilities of Einstein,
those crackling transmissions of the
Pentecost,
those crackling wavebands of gray.
Jesus saves.
Computers save.
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