Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
We never walk at sundown.
We could live better on this planet.
You hold your dark eyes
and I hold mine too.
If everyone stays inside their house
and guards their possessions
then we’ll call this planet “Earth”.
You have a forehead made of stone.
I remember the scent of stone.
A solar star burns
and
mortals go capturing its light,
but we could live better on this planet
so I guess
you’ll have your possessions
and I’ll have mine.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Should I devein my shrimp?
I bought it in a place that
sells people shrimp.
People who work for the people
who own the place that
sold me my shrimp have
told me
it would be best of me to
devein my shrimp,
but they’ll also sell to me
a service called “shrimp deveining”.
So now I wonder,
should I devein my shrimp
or pay someone who earns
less than me a little money
to devein my shrimp?
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
The Greens Of Prolmama
that place by the sunglasses store on Sunset Blvd
has helped a lot of cancer survivors get that way
You’ve been that way with your teeth
to stop and turn to the mountain
it makes us look that way
the way we look when there’s just too much
Cowboys riding into the future from the past on a spaceship
or an ion generation device
They make nice clothing at least for the persons who want
to look like that
The Greens infuse my chest cavity
so I look up to see Andromeda’s aftermath
and the aftermath is ignored by all the mammals and the reptiles
unless there’s fire
we’re then drawn outward
to a journey that takes a long long time
I could count the plastic in the toy store
or a municipal dump all for an afternoon to remember now
when we kissed as men reading the Bible
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
The little girl is talking to the trees
But the trees won’t wake up
To tell her what she needs
How her hair is
Who her friends will be
What side of town her family should
Live
The trees are old
They’ve lived long enough
They think it’s stupid what they’d
Have to explain
So they stay asleep
And the other kids avoid
The little girl talking to the trees
Because she’s different
And won’t walk around in circles
In the parking lot
Like the rest of the kids are told
To do so by their P.E. teachers
Because it’s a part of the curriculum
The planning of making tomorrow’s
Americans
be like this
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Today she is working
in the sunlight of a courtyard,
bringing police officers and civil clerks
tortilla chips and soda-water.
Rosa is bringing the sunlight on trays
to her masters.
They issue dollar bills and sustenance.
All of these buildings in New York City,
for whom have they fallen?
Should we build a city for the Master Humans,
to outer space,
to Disease Central Hospital with the power of satellites?
Disease Central Hospital
is the end of the line for heaven.
The end of the line for awards and winning.
The Capital of Capitalism has synthesis
in perception and cancer
and certification circles,
a.k.a. children.
All of it
born in
D.C.H. Systems.
Suddenly there was a gas.
People ran out into the street to
celebrate the banks.
“The banks are here!
They are not leaving!
They have our money!”
They cheered loudly and started
collecting money.
They placed the money in a big pile
and had Big Mike bring his flatbed
truck over
to haul the money away to the bank.
The money has intrinsic value that
gives inflation meaning.
A lot of people had Kool-Aid stains
around their mouths.
They were yelling, giving each other
high fives.
Big Mike honked his horn as he drove away.
Who took the money?
Suddenly there was a flash and a loud noise.
Everyone collected themselves and their items.
They went inside their houses
and pulled down their shades and turned
on their TVs.
The Super Bowl was on.
Lots of really cool television
commercials shined that night.
A lot of people had Kool-Aid stains
around their mouths.
Everyone has to pay taxes.
You can’t cheat death, not with that
level of personal worth.
And Jesus, Leroy, isn’t someone always
watching you?
O life of this bird,
breaded and deep-fried.
Padded hands of god
laying the skinless muscles down
by auroras of gold and marble.
To seasoning, to spice, to oil.
For the oligarchs who
spend their vacation in God’s house:
the celebrity-chef cuisine.
For the executives who do their will:
the Palm Springs five-star cuisine.
That we may be so fortunate
for them to bring it down to us lesser,
the human beings.
Amen.
A middle age couple in love
on an overcrowded train
They’re wealthy, no one else
here is
That’s the way of these trains
She comes from a long line
of calculated genetics
and
furls her brow like a young girl
in a North Renaissance
painting
He holds her hand
She tends to his tie
They are like children
amongst the working animals
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