08 Monday Apr 2013
Posted in Armenian, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on i want to sing only for you
Someday I will find a friend to help me re-learn all the Armenian I knew while in Peace Corps. Now I feel frustrated, I’ve forgotten so much. But I know one day I’ll sing again, sing beautifully.
Ես մուրացկան.
Ես ուզում եմ այցելել ձեզ.
Բայց ես չեմ կարող երգել.
Խնդրում ենք սովորեցնել ինձ երգել.
Ես ուզում եմ երգել է միայն ձեզ համար.
.
I am a beggar.
I want to see you.
But I can not sing.
Please teach me to sing.
I want to sing only for you.
08 Monday Apr 2013
Posted in Armenian, Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on ձեր երանության
Իմ լեզուն ներսում ձեր շուրթերը.
Ես խմել ձեր երանության.
Ձեր ձեռքը իմ գլխին.
.
My tongue inside your lips.
I drink your bliss.
Your hand on my head.
08 Monday Apr 2013
Tags
“… loveroot, silk thread, crotch and vine.”
— Walt Whitman
I’m not interested in who suffered more,
just those who mastered pain’s blood alphabet.
Trust joy. If what you long for is a door
that will lead you to love do not forget
that the door is here. What other purpose
could the orgasm have but to let me
talk to gods? At the moment of climax
when I leave behind ego and body
I call that act enlightenment – no hate,
attachment or pain – only bliss. Only
pilgrims working hard at their nightly prayers,
at blood’s loveroot. Don’t trust those who dictate
the path to wisdom. They are not holy
like you and all of your sticky fingers.
07 Sunday Apr 2013
Tags
frog, goats, honey bee, knitting, my mistress's witcheries, poem, Poetry, sonnet, tink, witchcraft, yarf
“It is knitting time,” a friend, a witchling,
informed me. She knew secrets to distill
dyes, how to tink, frog and yarf. Loom knitting
was her passion. “I was taught how to kill.
I was trained in the witcheries of war.
But,” she added, “Blood does not interest me.”
She lived in a lone mountain pasture, far
from the engines of men and their ugly
tools. That spring she taught me how to prepare
wool for spinning; how to charm honey bees
from their hives; how to talk to willow, yew
and oak. “I was trained only for warfare,
but witchcraft is far better. This craft frees
me for my loves: knitting, goats and now you.”
.
NOTE:
For a while I wanted to write a knitting poem, but since I don’t actually know how to knit I wrote this instead. The terms I use in the poem:
FROG: To rip back (when you say, “rip it, rip it”) by removing the needles from the project and pulling on the loose end of the yarn.
TINK: To undo knitted stitches by reversing the knitting motion, effectively un-knitting the stitch.
YARF: Slang for “yarn-barf.” A big lump of yarn that accidentally gets pulled out of a new center-pull ball, usually when you’re trying to find the end.
03 Wednesday Apr 2013
Tags
diving girls, mythology, Okinawa, Our Lady of War and Submarines, Rin, Sea Queen, sonnet, Uminchu
There is a legend told by the diving
girls of Okinawan, the Uminchu,
that the Queen of the Sea, while out floating
one day on the surface, gave birth to two
daughters. A goddess births only pearls,
of course, big as the moon. These two daughters
slept on the sea floor. Side by side, two girls
in their pearly forms slept. Then pearl divers
found Rin curled all round. Where her twin sister
was hid none could say. So they took her home,
combed her hair and called her Rin, the Sea Queen’s
daughter. And being the Sea Queen’s daughter
Rin was the essence of love and sea foam …
… and Our Lady of War and Submarines.
30 Saturday Mar 2013
It was in a valley of sunflower
blooms when the maid, the mother and the crone
came to our door. They called you out. “Daughter”
is a word hard enough to shatter stone
so now all I have left are broken rocks.
I am fine with the rites and all we do,
but not this. First they cut off your dreadlocks,
tattooed your skull, gave you a sword, taught you
how to kill. My daughter now makes chaos
kneel and beg but was taken one spring day,
leaving nothing for my arms to hold tight
but air. I wait for you, love, so that my loss
might be found. You’ll always be my blessed, fey
child; not some blood-soaked woman, dying knight.
28 Thursday Mar 2013
Posted in Humor, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
Tags
Bonnie and Clyde, Buddha, Buddha save me from your followers, crime is bliss, greed is god, Humor, Jekyll and Hyde, mantra, sonnet, swag, You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself
“You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself” — The Buddha
* * *
Crime is bliss. What do you need? Whatever
it is it is gone. The night kissed me, said,
“go and look for it.” But why would horror
want to be reclaimed? You were not misled
when they said life sucks. It does. Like people
who call themselves Buddhists — already they’re
doing it all wrong. I lost my Jekyll
(or was it my Hyde?) my thrill, my nightmare,
all that I could carry in a spare bag
and say, “hands up!” I don’t hate the Buddha,
just his followers. Take what you need. Greed
is god. Don’t feel too bad. If you need swag
you need swag. “Crime is bliss,” is my mantra,
because, apparently, that’s what I need.
* * *
28 Thursday Mar 2013
Tags
a taste like brine, he called me Jah, homoerotic, merman, rasta in the surf, stone and bone thrill
Up there it’s a bastard: rain, tears, spit, piss.
I’ve had it all. Down here, though, each deep breadth
pleases; the sun is a beacon. There’s bliss
in this pressure per square inch. Crushing depth,
they call it. All the sky is full of blue
ripples. There are two-legged boys I know, shy
when they first meet mother. What’s that haiku?
“Mother I never knew,/ every time I
see the ocean/ every time.” Yes. Indeed.
Go down, love, I tell them. They taste like brine.
How odd that things made of bone and stone thrill.
I had a lover who called me “Jah;” smoked weed
floating on the surface. I took what’s mine
“I love you,” he said, as he kissed each gill.
28 Thursday Mar 2013
I don’t want to be born. I want to be
made-up from a world of cryptic but bad
grammar. Make me bionic and hungry
for spare parts. Ink pens for lips, a keypad
smile. Where I walk loose change shall fall. I err,
for I struggle with my opposable
thumbs every day. It is in my nature
not to have any Nature in me. “Null”
is a good word. So is “methyl,” “sour”
and “carbon-based life-form.” Shall I compare
myself to a sodden day? I am damp
as a void. I mean, it takes an odd hour
to fill the wet gap in me. Err or err,
either way I’m as blank as a headlamp.
26 Tuesday Mar 2013
I went into the backyard and dug two
shallow graves; one for you and one for me.
I sure as hell don’t want to be with you
in a dirt hole for all eternity
if I fuck this up. When I hate something
it gives me focus. I’m a stumblebum.
Focus isn’t my strength. O heart, bleeding
won’t end a thing, but it’s a start. Seldom
do we get new starts. Heart, foolish heart,
you have been cut and pierced, starved and eaten.
You are a sad, little thing when you bleed.
I don’t care about revenge, the sweetheart
who broke me, anyone. Heart, you’re the one
I want dead; the last thing, right now, I need.
memories of my ghost sista 