Page 32 - the Noise November 2017

Untitled 1, 2, & 3 by Jarrod Karimi
When the well has run dry
I just look at your face and poetry finds me
I look into your earthy eyes
I see the world framed in dark electric blue eyeshadow
I love you because you are impossible
I love you because you reject love
I love you because we are both sad, crazy monsters functioning in a civilized world
it is not a civilized world until your voice resounds the room with anwered prayers, musical incantations
When the muses have left the building
When my heart slips through the cracks of my ribcage and blows away
I just look at your sphinx face and remember I was born to die under the pen
I remember that I can only love the moon
I can only love you whom I cannot reach
For the dust of my heart is safer in space reaching toward your enpowering light which disrupts oceans and emotions You are the mother
You are the spider
You are the praying mantis
Devour my flesh, my breakfast brains
Cut a line from my dusty heart and snort it
Rub in on your country clit, smack yourself into an orgasmic stupor
When human beings fail I imagine what the nape of your neck smells like
Maybe amber, honey, and peach shine
I imagine what your lips taste like crashing into mine
Maybe blood, lip gloss, and white widow
I imagine what your sex is like against mine
Course, graceful, and wet with the glaze of provocative storms
Then and only then
There is peace in the wild world of my gypsy soul.
My heart is a wild raging river
That will swallow any brave swimmer
My heart was a lonely hunter
A lion in the cold cold winter
My heart is black obsidian
A stack of burnt Gideons
Scorned like Vivien’s in Gone with the Wind Broken like Diane DI Prima’s revolution
My heart is a fist wrapped in leather
My heart is a hobo in the gutter
Tender as the King’s voice
Holy like a pair of checkered vans
Heavy like John Henry’s hand
My heart is in the dark
Cast away the sad hues
My heart is in the red
Blinded by the lights
Prancing on your Danelectro
A derelict of the night
Busking for some nachos
My heart, a Curandero
That does not eat albinos
Spelling out the attacks
With my own dance soundtrack
Some call it witchcraft
I call it my right to bear brooms
Sweep the dirt out the room
My heart is a ghetto blaster that booms
illustrations by Kris Pothier
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He never wanted to be a street fighting man
The tide pulled him in by the skin of his chinny chin chin
Washed raw by spewing water cannons
Broken and beaten by hateful heathens
He told the truth lost a tooth for the revolution
He did some time paid his fines went back at it again
He turned on tuned in and dropped out
A sore thumb banging on a zhangu drum at the 68 democratic convention He stole the book, he took the purple pill
He smoked weed with the secret service on Capitol Hill
He turned guns into vases of cattails
He burned sticks of tea with Carolyn Cassady
He bombed war machine facilities
He was brought to his knees by big police
The picture was on the face of every magazine
He was interviewed by an independent journalist
He was hungover smokey spider cobwebs
They dissected every sound he said
He slept on the floor and made the bed
His sarcasm became a national anthem
He mixed his drinks the way he mixed his religions
He never wanted to be the spokesman for a generation
Song and dance was his vocation
There was even a failed assassination
There was a lengthy hiatus on the indian Reservation
He returned sunburned
He had unlearned what he had learned
Yet his spirit still yearned for insurrection
He took the journey inward
He ventured near and far
He nurtured his feral soul in the desert cold
Until he was whole with nature
He dreamed under the storm
in a bed of rain water
He heard a voice thunder
Let go of your anger
Your eyes are birds
Your body is a rorschach test
Your mind, a flying saucer
There is music in the temple
Now play.
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