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New Eyes

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i cannot differentiate

between two sides

of the same coin

neither can i make head

or tail of you or whether i

want to run & hide

the choice was to choose 

a predetermined future

and you played every game

right until i started

to see you as the stick-figured

boy i drew & colored in with

shades of reverie when i was 5 

because then you turned

into a summer breeze while

i became the ebb tide 

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Disappear

You had rainy eyes
blanketed by sunlight hair
and a smile like the stars

your song stole breath
from my lungs, filled so as to
cry out to where you are

your soul was deep,
your secrets buried soundly
at the bottom of an ocean filled with tears

 

and my soul sung, too
a tale of it's own
a sad turn of page filled with fear

that I might lose all momentum in our love
and watch you slowly disappear.

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Master of Night (For Cats, Large and Small)

I.

Wild fevered summer cat

crouched in night forest

leaf-rustle, ear-swivel

golden eye-gleam, nostril flare

smell trail, chase drumming

hot blood of jugular pulse on tongue

 

II.

Barest winter, bones spare

as naked trees knock

hungry ghost at door

I crouch, invite you in ("I am not yours")

eyes warn, my sofa, my fire

recline like buddha, one golden orb

fixed on me

 

III.

Cat-mind drifts back

ten thousand years

desert goes for days

sun-blaze on fur, sandpaper tongue

drink from Tigris, cool forgiving

 

Mate with five heated slit-eyed beauties

consider symbiosis, my ancestors

pile grain into a barn too slow to catch mice

while naked two-legged kittens

play with your children.

 

Humans will worship yet bury you alive--

our dead won't be lonely

The mice in the barn will find

Master of Night

that no death nor game is too cruel for you

 

IV.

Now, fates joined

after your hunt, before mine

yawn and blink at the sun

bury my face in electric fur

you drape a lazy velvet paw

over me purrs reverberate

 

All is right in this universal chase

sun-selves,  shadow-selves

predator and prey

for life love

and death

**************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Copyright 2012 by Ann Marcaida

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Reach Inside

Vibrate the strings

at the centre

of my culmination,

 

my oscillating Oroboros question

of "why?" that bites

it's own tail eternally,

dissolves the eternal O

to I, seeing only one dimension.

 

See if there is sensation on that scale

If there is still an I to see

Or simply infinity

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What Medford Taught Me

“e canterò di quel secondo regno
dove l’umano spirito si purga
e di salire al ciel diventa degno.

Ma qui la morta poesì resurga,
o sante Muse, poi che vostro sono;
e qui Calïopè alquanto surga…”
Purgatorio, Canto I, Dante

"And of that second kingdom will I sing
Wherein the human spirit doth purge itself,
And to ascend to heaven becometh worthy.
let dead Poesy here rise again,
O holy Muses, since that I am yours..."
- English Translation


I don’t want to live through memory, I need
to feel a moment. To wake knowing the undertow
of a mountain falling down on a chest and, being afraid, 
asks for some purple token of friendship to remind
that while some ideas change, most get stuck in our throat.

I don’t want to sit perched on a hill,
away from the human din and ardor of toil,
surveying the sentimental grasp and major Cs
that could or may yet be a fallen wasp’s nest.

I want my hands dirty, brown armpits of my white
shirts. I don’t want anything to be or not be other
than how it is now, or when tomorrow’s tomorrow, 
how it is then - and know that difference as the moisture
evaporates. I don’t want anything to be perfect except
the enjoyment of light, curled in a weak hand, picking up 
the rollicking strand and starting again without hope, but purpose.

I don’t want to see electronic yellow billboards
flashing “Boston Terror Updates” in pixelated violence
as if fear needs a reminder to come again when conjured
illusions, unbidden, do enough speaking to mute our color.

I want to remember names by seeing
the shape of their skin, not reading symbols
and painting an allegory to war or space travel or history books.

When I think of the Red Sox I want us to sing
Bruce Springsteen and Van Morrison with a friend,
the ones who claim tomorrow will never be better,
unless we try harder not to die or make things
more complicated than a knot to untie, making
each day its own meritocracy of sometimes valleyed peaks
over in Charlestown, that balled fist, or ambling to Cambridge, 
that look of knowing, and down into Needham and Newton
with the Jews, where the hills roll into a cultured apogee
of hand-spun revolution.

I don’t want to think of Variteks or Ortizes.
I want to grin with Walter Wrights, Kettlewells, Gingles,
Morans, Butlers, and Murphys. I want to walk through Mass Ave,
a stranger amongst unknown royalty, admire and know
exaltation so that it may be repeated, not preserved.
Let’s eat sushi down Brookline, a nice spot in Jamaica Plain,
enjoy a sake and talk about the unknowable past and 
how young it is to be living. I want us to touch the Newbury Street
cobblestone, watch the pigeons from the faded violet brick 
of footsteps, sip a cool drink, smoke, and think 
of home: what home? Here, now. 

I don’t want Medford to be some half dreamt
idea forged in a Somerville garage between a pair
of broken overalls and a pastel paint job,
an elephant laid to rest along the hedges
that children only whisper about when the grown
and undreaming have gone to bed for a day. No,
I want tufts of hair and a jazz band to play
my funeral, be damned. My conscience sees the trees,
but forgets how wet the blue handicap sign appears
when I’ve stopped looking in the woods for what was
or wasn’t there, when looking didn’t change how things were.
The dingy bus in Chinatown never looked a more immaculate
chariot to another adventure in Yonkers. Let’s dance again
at Davis Square and throw coins to the musicians who breathe still.


I want us to live among the townies, crowned with brass or
High Life aluminum siding, strong houses as bodies
filled with a present day story that loops around itself like
a Borgesian play and starts again in a spoken-word mythology
culled from this instant now and here and here again until
the next one comes that inevitably follows. The next pigeon to black out
on the T, finding the red line a suitable home for student vagabonds,
programmers, and brokers, if they’re not all the same person in the end.
The commotion, and it’s truer than desire, never ceases or apologizes 
for being petty, or stops loving its own movement toward that something.

Let’s not be pattern seekers anymore. I want to blend in,
make stripes of scars, not losing the strand that separates,
makes new, and comes to something altogether different and maybe
holy. No grey shadows where the sunlight was just yesterday,
and still is, if only the shades were not so heavy today and we
rushed toward the sirens because they call on us to save
each other, without knowing how exactly, but to try with grace
and fail, because, an animal is only a dying animal after all.

I want to try, even as this hand is my own,
to be a mowed skyscraper rising in jeweled smog sunset,
because one day I won’t want to or have too little
blood to run for today and tomorrow. Then,
I’ll prefer to dream of things that once were,
wishing to have created something out of things
that were not yet. There is still time I want,
there was a marriage I heard, despite the mourners.
I want to hear again and shake your salty hand,
congratulations for your name and your ruddy face,
drift off to Cape Cod in August with a dream
and some incubated intent. I want the wind
to flag through the warm SUV windows,
deep in our conversations about the future,
and the unseen whispers of young people who,
knowing the irascible beauty of newness, shall
wake a drowsy half opened-eye and remind us the way,
breathing and wanting and talking and looking.

Let us go then, carry the etherized to the nearest triage of words, 
and make haste to open our throats and make it worth the spoons
we counted after all the tired days. The moment does not flicker,
it pauses and waits, a homegrown tiger ready in our kind steady grip.

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forget regret / the light of day

forget regret / the light of day

*

we were fed lies for lunch as children

and had even those snatched away as we grew

left with mirrors as meaning 

and punctuation we could disperse as we pleased

upon ungrateful parchment that knew

neither the weight nor the wafer-thin justification

for the free form funky reality 

imposed and signified as symbolic tome

becoming bane for all unrestrained and unrepentant 

who, deemed violators of precepts a priori

hallowed and honed upon the roiling flesh of backs

seared with lashes to ashes, encrusted with disgust 

as recently as the last moment you could recall

being fed burnt bread and bad butter

for digestion and nourishment, hearing  

it was to your credit and good health 

to be granted admission to dine with demons

in their den.

*

P.S.:  

so we dined and survived somehow

thrived. even -

grew enough to now, in the light of day,

have hearts able to forgive, if not forget - the regret

of having experienced that darkness of night…

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Darken Their Harvest Sun

                              An Ode to George

When one people fall victim to another in war
Revenge’s shadow falls across the victor’s door

You must kill the sons of the bravest ones
You must forever darken their harvest suns

This is the transforming backbone of our tragic story
From marauding madmen to mythic tales of heroic glory

You must kill the sons:
Seminole Braves stumble drunk in the Everglades
Uniformed casino clerks with hybrid Anglo name tags

You must kill the sons:
Stylized Samurai coded symbols on Toyota autos
Recall two mushroom clouds darkening the red sun

You must kill the sons:
Sons of West Africa and islands along the coast
Pace inside invisible cages dripping from syringes

Possessed by the ghosts of hooded paddy rollers,
Pale faces in uniform and their shielded vigilantes

Believe in the expediency of this American tragedy
Older than the Good Ship Jesus and its slaver legacy

Bound now, tightly as yin and yang, the dark
Defines the light, while love defines the hate

This is the transforming backbone of a tragic story
From marauding madmen to mythic tales of heroic glory

You must kill the sons of the bravest ones
You must forever darken their harvest suns

An enemy with a lost harvests of brave sons slain
Becomes docile like a once fierce bull now on a chain

When the world’s power rolls into the hands of another
They will find your sons, they will smile and pretend

Then they will darken forever your harvest sun
They’ll convict and execute your last begotten one.

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Daydream (Finally)

I Like to daydream

Daydream about a time

Where I’m finally yours

& you’re finally  mine


 

Everything is great

& Everything is Cool

Because you’re finally my gal

& i’m finally your dude


 

We talk as much as positble

& see each other as much as we can as well 

Always setting time aside for each other

Even when we’re both busy as all hell


 

When we fight we instantly make up

& we laugh about our scuffle 

Then we travel to our bed

& get the sheets all ruffled

You play video games with me

& I don’t complain too much when you shop foragree that our first dog will be named Goku


 

I finally end up proposing to you at your favorite restaurant 

You accept my proposal with a “Holy fuck! Yes!”

& we get married in a little chapel

Somewhere out in the West


 

We eventually grow old & soft together

& We reminisce about our past 

About the time when I used to daydream

About you & I finally being together at last