That time I featured at the Twisted Poets reading series.

Too busy to blog lately as I’m in writing and editing mode, this one of my latest efforts.

AVATARS & ADVENTURERS

We are warriors, from Beowulf’s might
to the steel resolve of #MeToo,
defending our realms on the ground,
in fields, swamps or office towers.

My tag was Tomboy; armed with long
legs, a hard head and will of iron,
intrepid as any FPS avatar,
I carved sagas and slayed

with a wooden stick turned bazooka,
defending our makeshift fortress
against marauders, human or beast,
battle-sweating and vanquishing foes.

We braved treacherous ditches,
lecherous uncles, concealed glass shards,
blizzards, bumps, badger holes, bug bites,
thin ice, the vertigo of sky-high train trestles,

the ambush of leeches
and the stench of skunk cabbage.
Masters of evasion we dodged coyotes,
bears, thundering big rigs, sinister wells,

stumbling, squawking inebriated
parental units and lurking lone dudes
beckoning from their Pintos
in desolate parking lots.

Unrelenting scouting missions led us
to caves, derelict farmhouses,
looming, gnarled trees, and the vast,
echoing unknown of storm drains.

Our non-linear escapades were bound
by no script or code. No one lagged or rage-quit
and when trapped indoors we engaged
in ancient rites of Rummy, Crazy 8s and checkers.

My son, a paladin forged in digital fires
embarks on galaxy spanning quests, every challenge,
every boss fight a step toward connection,
bonds formed through adversity.

He’s learned to navigate, strategize,
communicate and persevere,
face down demons with a continent-
spanning team of allies united in purpose.

Beneath the gaze of the sun
or the glow of screens,
we share a legacy of adventure,
resilience and ceaseless discovery.

Latest revision of my kooky slay the patriarchy poem, a kind of extended metaphor,  transforming the speaker into Artemis, the ancient Greek goddess of the hunt to explore themes of power, transformation and retribution. I have the rest of April to compose new work and finish editing ahead of meeting with an astute editor to pull together a manuscript. If only I can focus. My concentration has improved. Onward & upward!

IF I WERE ARTEMIS

My options swell
when I’m a goddess,
a goddess of the wilderness.

If I were Artemis,
beyond mere video game avatar
summoned with a click,

I would weave the tale.
Darling, I would transform
you into a stag,

from predator to prey,
from player to played.
My golden arrows ace your sword.

Machine gun. Hubris.
I’d deploy Nemesis
or rouse the sea’s wrath,

foil your holiday,
or perhaps unleash a hoary boar
to maim your mean old butt.

I made the mistake-or was it-of posting this recently. Almost immediately discourse deteriorated into unpleasantness. No wonder I’m reluctant to employ my voice or post anything remotely political. Navigating such a complex, polarized information landscape is fraught.

First there was a disagreement about the authenticity of the photo, which is fair enough. Then a sort of pissing contest ensued about who was the most well-informed, or least indoctrinated.

It appears to me there is little possibility of rational discussion, or a ceasefire, or the unimaginable therefore unattainable, peace.

What breaks my heart most is that despite our potential, human beings are seemingly incapable of true advancement. It’s all so fucking sad.

WHO TO BELIEVE

The podcaster with a legion of followers?
The journalist who’s been there,
face etched by the sun of that distant land?
What of the emigrant decrying the place,
or at least, its right-wing government?

Is it the loudest voice that holds the truth?
Or the one armed with the sharpest wit,
slicing through arguments with precision?
Is it the one drawing the most poignant,
heart wrenching analogies:
“World’s largest concentration camp.”

The optimists, pessimists or realists?
All claim to know the facts,
seemingly own the facts. Clarity.

Censors lurk, eager to snuff out every voice,
mute dissent, but still, we hear. Listen.

Exactly who are the indoctrinated?
Who wields oppression’s heaviest hand?

No one agrees as debates
devolve into discord none can flee
while sidestepping the vital teachings
of forgotten epochs,
flames ignited in a terrain
rife with deceit and harsh decrees.
I wonder how to mine hope from the mire.

Complexities abound in every human heart,
our aim not to unfurl hate
but to envision a world rooted in empathy.

Can I hear a gentle word?
Is there room for a kind gesture?

I cast my lot with truth,
however elusive.
Weariness creeps
into the wait for illumination,
the vigil for the dawn
of a new era.
A new beginning.

“It was never an apple.” Makes sense, doesn’t it?

Despite several disruptions, I’ve been writing like a fiend this year in order to complete a collection of poetry and new edition of my novel, “The Town Slut’s Daughter,” for its 10th anniversary in October, which blows my mind. I’m aiming to amass enough new work by end of April, enough to pull together a manuscript with an astute editor.

In any case, I happened across this funny and irreverent meme, the best characteristics of memes-and thought of Paradise, a concept as elusive in meaning as it is in real life. I found two poems with references to Paradise, both character sketches, both inspired by the same character. While some people remain enigmas, churning them into art is perhaps peversely, gratifying.

The image is “The Paradise Sonata – Revelation,”  a woodcarving on paper by  renowned Czech painter, draughtsman, graphic artist, Max Švabinský. Only the ether knows who’s responsible for the meme. Gotta love life in the 21st century; it’s moments like these that remind me to cherish the unpredictability and interconnectedness of life.

Happy Monday my pretties! I wish you all a week filled with fruitful endeavors.

ADAM

Free from moral constraints,
self-described mental case,
more lewdster than lover
disappears in a puff
of cigarette smoke
along with fig leaf
and cute apple cheeks.

Though his well-crafted sentences
seduced,
my pronounced longing
did nothing
to create union
or usher in paradise.

ADAMANTINE TRAVELLER

Though you may have an affinity
for the coke-addled,
a penchant for the woebegone
and a fetish for the shattered,
you will abandon the road to ruin
if I take too long
or refuse to take direction.

Transcendence is not
your destination, nor love.
Love is beside the point,
as is joy.
You may do jolly,
but not joy.
Whatever the point is,
your needs and desires
are shifty and ill-defined.
“Whatever,” you declare.

May your spittle fly,
may your words be sharp as daggers.
May tremors tickle the foot
of your bed, deliver
the entertainment you crave.

I will arrive at my destination
solo,
whether I like it or not.

I arrive as surely as verse and song,
for my destination is mine.
Your mayhem can’t blanket me
or smother chimera,
any more than you can “handle” me,
or get me, or have me,
me and my back-breaking dreams.

On this Valentines Day eve when I’m feeling more than a little disillusioned with romantic love, I will share a poem about a mother’s love for her son. Truly eternal.

FAMILIAL FANTASIAS

In the languid night’s tender glow,
through labyrinthian processions
upon an infinite summer catwalk,
we glide beneath a banana tree canopy,
south of the equator where snowbirds go.

Here we are soul sisters once more,
flaunting our glittering gowns,
tittering, kisses flying
though jasmine-perfumed air,
enveloped in a gauze of unbridled bliss
until, within this splendor
no one knows where my son is.

Panic ignites a creeping ivy of dread,
blossoming into a frantic search
the way I searched the one time I lost him
in waking life, when he vanished
into the maw of a vast supermarket,
leaving me to frantically call out
for an eternity/five harrowing minutes,

his absence now a shadow that grows
with the passing years, perhaps a catalyst
for the portraits of Junior that surround,
each frame a shrine to the fleeting nature
of moments.

In his realm my son reigns supreme,
an architect of worlds,
weaving narratives,
parading his own grand designs.