I miss you -
that's all I wanted to say,
the only message I want to send
out on the ether.
I hope it reaches you,
on your little farm atop the hill.
Beloved: A Poem for Palestine | Poems that Suck
This is the poem that won the Anita McAndrews Poetry Award
There’s a funny story behind this poem:
It was written in January of 2017 – 1 month after I returned from Palestine the first time. It is the product of a class assignment: I had to write a Psalm using non-traditional language and non-traditional versing. I was PISSED that I had to write this (if any of you know me, there’s two parts of the Bible I cannot stand – Psalms and anything Paul wrote). I put it off for a week, grumbling and bitching about having to do it. I was, additionally, experiencing a major depressive episode at the time and just didn’t have the energy to do it. So the night before it was due, I sat down and wrote this.
Funny how life works out, huh?
You can read it here or below:
Beloved:
You called me to the ends of the Earth,
the place where your breath sighs,
so that I might suffer to find
brotherhood.
I met you at every step, the ochre
Judean sands gritting between my
toes as I tried to match you;
heel to toe.
Your spirit whipping my hair, as
I traced the desolate crescendos
of the South Hebron Hills in the dying
winter light.
I have known the fragile weight of you,
destroyed, in my open arms as despair
swallowed me on the rocky shores of
the Kinneret.
Heard your voice transform from singing
in a sumptuous Arabi to the shrill scream
of terror as I stood, useless, on the rooftops:
Al-Khalil.
I have seen your face in its forms of hurt
and healing; bruised purple, smeared with
blood, swollen; the gift of a crazed soldier
or settler.
Smelled the acrid stench of burning wire,
choking me, stinging my eyes as I trudged
knee deep in filth to bring your children
to kindergarten.
Beloved:
You have called to where my heart throbs
thrice: Fal-a-steen -and I can’t ever hope
to rid myself of the land, the people, or
the life.
You invite me, now, to receive you in
the fruit of the vine, to fill myself
with your sacrifice so that I might match you
heel to toe.
Waiting | Poems that Suck
"There's showers here,"
I didn't think much of this information
until I watched you walk toward the building -
each step lingering - hope in every footprint.
You stopped one last time,
at the doors of your destination
and I could feel the glee of your
mischievous grin from across the field.
I found you there, stripped
bare and radiant in your beauty,
waiting for me...
Judas | Poems that Suck
I'm tired -- tired of being tired, of feeling like my body is held down by anchors sunk to unfathomable depths, leaving me struggling for air, for energy. I'm tired -- of waking up to feel like going back to sleep, where my body is whole and full of life. I'm tired -- of running interference with exhaustion, and mitigating it with so much coffee that my piss stinks of it. I'm fucking tired -- the spirit is willing, is full of fire and passion, but this Judas of a body is weak.
Awesome! | Life Updates
Early this morning, I got the nod that I had won 1st place in the Anita McAndrews Poets for Human Rights Contest!
I can’t tell you how good that feels… and immediately after I got a rejection from a lit mag! 🙂
I feel it’s like the universe is keeping my ego in check 🙂
Ok writer friends, tell me what your success this month have been! Have you been published? Where at?
1-800-Dial a Piece | Poems that Suck
My new lover called today,
purring obscenities in my ear
like a fat cat about to get its fill
on something juicy.
In my excitement to get
it in, I decided to Nair,
rather than shave my thick,
auburn, pubic hair.
We were naked an hour later,
when he recoiled in horror.
I turned my head to look, then
had to explain that it was a chemical
burn and not, in fact, Herpes.
Crayola Crayons | Poems that Suck
There’s always something whimsical,
nostalgic, reassuring, even,
about the smell of
Crayola Crayons.
.
It brings me back to a time
of pure joy, and innocence.
.
It’s also the reason why
I liked to fuck
in his car
so often.
A Promise | Poems that Suck
You were asleep,
laying face down
on top of the tangled
bed clothes.
A Harvest moon hung
low in the sky, peeking
through the window shades
and stretching its golden fingers
of light up the length of your glorious,
nude body. The moment hung in the salty, humid
air, like a promise of what was yet to come.
Buk 100 | Life Updates
With great hootin’ and hollerin’ and titties-a-floppin’, I’m excited to say that I’ve been included in Newington Blue Press’ Buk 100 Vol. 2!
I am joined by many INCREDIBLE writers such as:
The man, himself, Charles Bukowski, Ad Winans, Abel Debritto, Alan Catlin, Alexander Limarev, Alicia Mathias, Amy Barry, Anggo Genorga, Brian Whitmore, Bryn Fortey, Catfish McDaris, Cedric Barnaud, Clint Lukas (with Marina Bukowski), Christiane Nebel, Misty Illustrations, Dan Provost, Dana St. Mary, Daniel W. Wright, Danny Koslowski, Dracu Laruen, Eric Robert, Nolan Gabor, Gyukics Giovanni Manginate, Henry Hughs, Jack Henry, Ipshita Chakraborty, Jenn Hall, Joan Jobe – Smith, John Guzlowski, Leon Joron, Chava Silberstein, M. Mrazfield, Mark Cramer, Matthew Cooper, Matt Dennison, Matt Dukes Jordan, Matt Micheli, Melissa Todd, Michael D. Amitin, Michael D. Meloan, Monica Mastrantoni, Niles Reddick, Opher Goodwin, Ron Hard, Ronald P. Bremner, Shannon Laws, Ted Giffen, Tobe Damit, Tohm Bakelas, Westley Heine, Yi Jung, Zachary Guadamour, pLopLop, Paul Maher Jr., Sid Yiddish, Jami Cassady, Brian Rihlmann, Falko Henning, Paul Tanner, Bradford Middelton, Bruce Hodder, The Drunken Odyssey with John King, Hillary King, Januz Zalewski, Jay Rohr, John Greiner, John Patrick Robbins, Karol Neilson, Miriam Sagan, RP Verlaine, Wayne F. Burke, John Castellenas, Joe Callanan, Shelby Snow, and many, many more.
The aim is to print and publish this second volume before Christmas! The cost is 15,00 € (due to the larger volume of the Chapbook they slightly raised the price) plus 5,00 € shipping within Europe. Overseas shipping is 10,00 €.
Way of payment: www.paypal.me/charlesbukowski
Inquire at press@newington.blue
Trust me… I already got mine, cuz I know this one is going to sell out so fast it’ll burn the press up!
Untitled | Poems that Suck
"I love you," you called to my retreating back. I wondered if it was exquisite cruelty, or reassurance. Maybe it was a measure of relief for you, Since now, you never have to see me again. Either way, it was a javelin to my (already fragile) heart.
Poems that Suck 