I asked November to be kind
because it’s always been so vicious.

And for the first time,
for the very first time
in three long years,
it was.

It embraced me and
I embraced back, embraced
its orange falls,
crisp curls,
crackling thunder.

Then December rolled in with
it’s contemplating chilled breath,
like an angry drunk,
smacking me around,
lying me down.

January inebriated me
with its Atlantic breeze.
But I showed no
remonstrance.

February just hit my face
harder–paralyzing it–
again and again–then,
it cracked my porcelain
bone. And I crashed
once more.

I laughed at her though,
laughed and threw my finger up!

Then, I asked, I
crawled, I begged
April,
“Will you be kind to me
dear April?”
because March had been
so cruel, because
I didn’t know my own
will, my own strength–
two poets dead,
one beside a bed we’d
shared. He had been
the one I loved.
The other, I admired.
(how funny for a poet to
be dead)

One had lost control too many
months before; that one was
a mystery.
The other, a man of his people,
faced death a year ago–death
came in the shape of an
idiot’s pistol.

April was warmer;
she held my head up,
gave me water, refilled me,
showered me as I drained. She
carried me by her teeth like
a bitch carrying her pup
to safety.
But I was a disoriented pup,
loose skin still
too stretched
to move.

And May.
May,
what did she say?
I haven’t heard.
I’ve gone deaf.
What should I ask of
you my May, when I’ve
lost nearly all sense?

As I search franticly
for more questions to
collect, I cannot ask her
to be kind to me,
no, not like April.
How could I,
when I haven’t been
so to myself?

Will June heal me
as it’s done countless
times before?

What else, what more
can I ask these months?
I wonder.

*****************************************************************************************************

Facundo Cabral was a singer/songwriter/poet and activist from Argentina. One of my favorite folk singers. He was shot last year. Not long before that, he’d done a free concert for peace in Colombia.

And well, the other “poet”, Monkey Man L. … if you’ve read much of my blog, you know about that one. I think it’s really helped the grieving process to write about him on here, so please forgive me in advance if I don’t shut up about L.

********

This is quite possibly one of the most beautiful songs ever written. It’s not his original but his rendition of it is my favorite. It’s called, “Thanks to Life” or “Thanks Be to Life”. Here’s a translation of the lyrics: http://www.williammorin.com/graciasalavida.html

Oooh look. An illustrated one, LIVE version duet with some other singy dude named Edwardo Soto, oh, and a PIANO! A PIANO!

And this is one of his many sarcastic poems about humanity’s idiocies and follies. “Pendejos” means something akin to “dumb asses” or “idiots” and so on and so forth.

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I Am Not a Poet
a nursery rhyme for Dear Dotty & Ink Anette

I am not a poet.
By now, you should
know it.

I just like to spit.
I like to spit words,
spit words

like swords
and blades
spit words under my
seething shade;

spit when I’m sad;
spit when I’m joyful
reproachful or glad.
I’ll spit on your ass
’cause I’m a crass
little lass.

I’ll spit in my cage
when I silently rage.

I like to spit
shitey shit with shit

when I twitch’n “bitch”
n’ itch
and can’t scratch
my bum
’cause I have to
be a lady!
What am I, a nun?
Hell no.
I’m just somewhat shady
and shaky.

But I’m not a poet.
And none of this is
literal
or literary.

Just so you know it,
I’m somewhat cynical,
maybe even a bit scary.
Sure I like to spit
in the lyrical
with a clitic
or two.
After all, a lady,
a sensitive cynic
with two tiny tits
a clit and no wit.

But I am not a poet.
By now,
you should know it.

And this is not
not, not
a dotty poem
(or noem)
’cause I’m no
longer a sot.

© Paz

**************************************************************************************************

Sure enough, yesterday’s showers cooled down this inferno. It’s a beautiful, cool (even chilly) spring day. Unfortunately, I slept too much again–a little lowly and lonely. And my wheelchair decided to start acting up again. Bagh.

At least I’m following through with the NaPoWriMo deal, right?

*le sigh*

The other I is crepuscular when it’s nigh

to the feeling of being inept, and

in a single sigh,

it  feasts on my modest breast.

Taught to sit.

I only sit. Agitated.

Shadowboxing

becomes the night,

only long after

meals and memories invited

by wine come and dine

with I and the other I.

Because an evening meal

is never finished

until you’re left by yourself

and hating yourself.

Or maybe not, but just not

quite ready I say.

Just not yet, I’m still so small.

Still so inept.

I’ll just sit in my high chair

and look down at it all,

the floorboards shaking.

And what will you get at?

I ask the other.

When will you get at it?

With thoughts

piled in a chamber, dark and heavy like

a miner’s bushel of coal

ready to carry fire and crumble into–

I and the other I

stuck in a rolling barrel, rolling

head between

the consumption and the

place of self creation

and self annihilation.

What are you getting at? I ask her

the better half of me

stuck between the bark.

Peeled skin like an apple–ripe, too ripe–

thin and brittle little red peels ripped

from me.

Think I say.

God, just think, but not too much.

That’s just it, you think too much,

to the brink,

to the brim you fill your cup.

How long will you let the

self-defeating wake you,

intoxicate you?

How long will the self defeating

thoughts abate your creativity?

You’re late.

Say, how long will the rumination

grow thick

pockets of smoke

that mosh between those

ringing ears while your

abilities slowly choke?

© PAZ 2011