Poetry Bang

We made linguistic sculptures.
Pedestrian verbal Davids,
Pigeon-shitless pietas,
Night-scape urban Rushmores,
Darkness and light.
La petite et grande,
With granite, flesh, and schoolyard chalk,
Burlap and sumptuous silk,
Alti-verses of cloud,
Of blood, of bitterness,
Of vulgarity, of despair,
Of love sublime, and the throes of tender lust.
We wrote.

Splashes of guts,
Of hearts,
Of lives-
Pinned to apartment walls,
Trapped in apron strings and diapers,
Running in the gutters,
The tiles of the subways,
Eyes caught in the green glare
Of 2AM Quick Mart florescence,
Trapped in tampon strings,
Hormonal angst raining anger or remorse,
Cramping, trapped, denied
From a life still pregnant with song.
We wrote.

Amidst the drizzle of the bland,
Glitter fell in the rain.
Gems, their facets surprising,
Prose that could stop your day
If even for a nano-beat.
The “I wish I’d written that”s.
Hope,
Spilled out to anonymous ears,
Cast to the sea of digital prayers,
Candles lit on the altar of the void.
Dreams were stitched with a syllable’s dew,
We flew In the jaws of dragonflies,
Flitting, reading, replying,
Lifted by the splash of another’s kind words.

We painted in scenes of seasons
With a brush of healing bruises,
Over fires freshly or long extinguished.
Old forest greens and Miles’ renting dissonant blues,
Moods and colors that still have no name.
Portraits were composed,
In breaths of turquoise and glistening amber,
In a writhing tempura of snakes,
Our forgiveness stalled
In the sweet constipation of bees.
Every day we reloaded our universe,
Just to hear the poetry BANG!