The Literate Epoch

The Muse
spits it out
like sneezy
snotty faced
youngsters
with hard
dialogue
for all
the writers
here
amongst us
off on a hiatus
still writing
when she wants us
we are so
inspired
won’t deny her
when she punctures
our person
with the pencil
edge
we’ve taken
a simple
pledge
to dangle
on the ledge
and overflow
when we
are overfed
full with
all the discipline
that certain
words
have given them
pain is physical
when verses
simply won’t
come into them
so when it
visits them
channel change
is near impossible
considered exorcism
cleansing breath
which we are
locked into
reaching
to draw
sense of sound
we sometimes
sounds illogical
our heart is
artistry
painting portrait
of the improbable.

written by The AOMuse

curiousity
has always
been one
of my
caveats
you will
not catch
me simply
believing
that being
is a simple
task
for it is
much
simpler
to ask
questions
that carve
this grand
canyon
cavern
of
understanding
that i stand
on
and this
is no
intuitive
matter of fact

i’ve a
lifetime
of living
mathematics
in which
i cast
these
calculations
and upon
dismissing
the
inequalities
and balancing
numbers
on opposite
ends of
the equation
i won’t have
all the answers
but i will
surely
answer with
exactitude
the solutions
i’ve come
to discover
and if you’ve
anything
other
than useful
dialogue
to add
to the sum
total
of my being
this one
simple thing
i ask

put some
challenge
in your
chalice
keep my
curiosity
quickened
by
augmenting
the
originality
of your
argument
and offer
me
something
new
to chew upon
i’ve digested
all the
dogmatism
i can stomach
and found
it to be
nutritionally
narrow
i’m too
curious
to accept
belief
because
i am ever
on the cusp
of clutching
my gut
and casting
forth
another
question
in spite
of how many
cats
are killed
in the process.

written by The AOMuse

Editor’s Note: This NaPoWriMo was co-authored with a fellow member of the Stupid Genius Brain Trust named Sherlita Varnado.  I first encountered her at a writing forum called Writer’s Unified and have been engrossed in an extensive study of the curvature of the fingers of her pen hand since that time.  I write as one long gone from the city whose heart still lives along the bank of a canal in Kenner where my brother and his friend Tavares caught an alligator garfish and lived to tell about it.  She fills in all of my foregone knowledge as one still present in the vibrancy Cajun country who still smells of Creole.

smells of
gumbo
not like
you cook

people
gumbo
brass bands
boogie
beignets
craw fish
creole
crab legs
plantation
politics
pool
halls

an aroma
that sticks
to you
and if
bottling
souvenir
scents
for the
return trip
they’d read
"made on
magazine"

stinks of
harlem
not a city
but an
abusive
bastard
known only
to us
as drunk
uncle
whom disappeared
from life
at age 7
not of sudden
death
but certain
detachment

this
odor of his
aftermath
reminds me
of a
cigar box
Aunt Donna
kept under her
couch cushion
when she told
us to go
and fetch

all we knew
was that it
made her easy

she found relaxation

while
the heart
of the city
banged
like a dilla beat

below sea level
but
bounce music
and God who
wrote the sky
uplifts the
black
community

when the rain
bleeds despondence
still there’s a
second line
uptown
in the 7th ward
9th ward
your ward
and
in my ward

Mondays
we serve
red beans
and rice
some days
in shotgun
houses
moon-bruised
fingers
redo braids

another day
mothers read
articles released
by Times-picayune

"another murder"

their eyes
explode
then
intermix with
the reds
of the sun

still
this
city
lingers
like an
off white
delta 88
never
seeming
to leave
our driveway
beyond
the week
of my
brother’s
initial
purchase
making for
convenient
outdoor
storage
and a poor
replacement
for a front
porch

we are
permanent
hangers on
like pools
of water
for 5 weeks
or more
Harry Lee
for sheriff
Louisiana
legacy
textbook
and i’m convinced
that somewhere
the Kingfish
still runs
this town

i don’t
know her
like i used to
she still
smells
of creole.

written by The AOMuse

Editor’s Note: If you are tagged, you have found yourself one of 30 founding members of the Institute for the Advancement of Stupid Genius.  Your intellect has surpassed merely intelligent consideration and entered the arena known as “stupid genius”.  Please note that I have a number of friends that deserve this honor, but you just happened to be the 30 members of the club that I could remember to tag off of the top.

i am
a mensa
mumbling
poet person
i represent
a rowdy pack
that won’t
stand
for the fact
that scrabble
now has the
audacious
intention
to allow
proper nouns

we shall
henceforth
commence
to continue
playing by
the old
rules
we are
always subject
to our own
rules
we alien
entities
whom
illegally
phone home
these jewels
and won’t
suffer
to fixate
even a fourth
our mental
faculty
upon fools

we are stupid genius

madmen
masterminds
mischief
makers
misfits
from our
coyote
thinking caps
to the
very tips
our anansi
fingers

we are broken english

for brevity
is the better
part
of an idea
best expressed
we capture
concepts that
creep behind
enemy lines
and pass them
back as
prisoners
of war
in the
passionate
throws
of poesy
debating
the merits
of poiesis
in the
focused folds
of our poetry
piss on plato’s
republic
we refuse
to park our art
in public places
for the sake
of social
governance

we are of prodigious substance

such
that sound
bites seem
sorely
insufficient
to redeem
this
genius
theme music
is a simple
salute
to my
secret
society of
stumbled over
stupid genius.

written by The AOMuse

Editor’s Note: Jah’kaya asked that I write her a poem about butterflies.  She had very specific requirements.  She wanted it to be short with no big words.  I can abide by the first request.  Since she knows me all too well, nothing is promised towards the second half of that statement.  Word to Steve Biko.  I write what I like.

you are
the
butterfly
in my eye
your chrysalis
forming
warms me
nourishing
my slumber
names me
beautiful
upon
becoming
you my
utter eye
butterfly.

written by The AOMuse

are you listening?
i want you to know
that last night
i wrote you
the dopest poem
that you
never heard
carefully
considering
craftsmanship
as i enunciated
every word
served syllables
raw diced
on a platter
of silver
punctuated by
tiny pungent
pearl drop onions
placed with
patience

i waited
for each sentiment
to pervade
the syntax
before i’d dare
breathe
a sentence

used
all sorts of
simple sorcery
to summon forth
the sum total
of my senses

centered
myself
in meditative
mindfulness
and sang
sanskrit
scripture
as i allowed
the pot
to simmer

and before
i could service
you proper
we were done
and so was that poem
overcooked
and now condensed
down to this

a beating heart
you could not hear
a violent silence
that i desire
binds your
ears
eternally.

White Noise by Shirley Wagner

written by The AOMuse

aging is the art of shedding those
superfluous layers of loose skin
until remains only the most
essential sense of you. ~ me

this
my second
skin
i leave you
tender
and hollow
outgrowing
the mold
of my first
making
for elemental
exposure
of what lies
beneath
soft
and slick
only slightly
vulnerable
for as long
as it takes
my outer
coat
to harden
armor

once
i knew you
as myself
we were
singular
in nature
we were
the same
and now i
float above
amazed
for while
i soldier on
you seem
to stand
still
statuesque
before me
perhaps
i look
similarly
in your eye
though in time
we both will
return to Earth
mere compost
and simple
sediment
but since
i am not
yet dead
i count my
growth
much more
important
than remaining
enveloped
inside of you.

written by The AOMuse

i fold myself
inside these
lines
outlining
the deepest
conviction
conditioned
in the subtle
creasing
of my mind
anger no longer
lives here
bewilderment
has long since
abandoned
the act
of acquiring
space upon
my face
just a smidge
above the
nose bridge
because it’s
too taxing
a task
to maintain
for when i am
plagued
with a peculiar
perplexity
that seems to
wrack my brain
i am consumed
with a mission
to move it
this ripple
riddled
forehead
is my outward
expression
of mental
movement
i refuse to lose
my carefree
curiosity
to adult
responsibility
so i engage
with every question
life presents
with intuitive agility
catlike reflexive
i can alter my
perspective
with an exceptional
rearrangement
of these 7
cervical vertabrae
i writh in
and out
position
repositioning
my eye
to capture
another portion
of the picture
depositing a puzzle
piece
that i intend
to pull apart
again
and when
i’ve finally
found the answer
i un-wriggle
this furrowed brow
and contemplate
patience
for the next
time i find
my conviction
poses a question.

written by The AOMuse

when writing
i am riding
reckless
irrespective
of the rules
of the road
the pivoting
ballpoint
of this papermate
was made for
my control
and perhaps
i am
the only driver
that shall matter
at this time

while i find
traction
crossing gray
asphalt tablets
and leave
tire marks
in any place
that suits
my pleasure

which might mean
riding roughshod
upon your
religion
or parking
my opinion
inside of
your politics
for this pen
is no respecter
of persons
but
a personally
impersonal
multi-passenger
motor vehicle
for public
transportation
a mere
mechanism
for moving
a series
of ideas
between we
two minds
in the shortest
expenditure
of time

when writing
i am riding
reckless
exposing the
earth’s wretched
or hope
for humanity
driving a
dirt road
towards wreckage
trucking
ink pen aplenty
on a dead head
run
we must keep
these words
in a consistent
state of
locomotion
like the legacy
of bluesmen
moving through
freight cars
calling themselves
home amongst
contraband cargo
as we were
once also

in writing
we can
ride the crest
of previous effort
until we are dashed
upon the rocks
and broken
or open ourselves
to a moving
and distant wind
that renders
us renewal

whether
riding road
avoiding rage
or rolling over
breaking waves
from ship to shore
i know my direction
and i am in
complete control
of my mode
of transit
for i passed
that road test
long ago
and earned
full licensure
to write
my way
through traffic.

written by The AOMuse

were it not for
the 24 hour news cycle
i would have seen her
she was passing by
late in the evening hour
unfortunately
the big ten network
held a gymnastics meet
which had me absolutely
transfixed
and so for one more day
i missed my chance meeting
with God
blame it on twitter alerts
and the cat
who some nights
refuses
to allow me leave
to clutch the bed close
the whole way through
or kefir
that rich and milky
ambrosia
kept calling me
from the fridge
now since one
can not possibly
consume kefir
on an empty stomach
i warmed
those divine collards
and sauteed the tofu
bedded a salad
more successfully
than i do my own head
turned up the lights
so as not to consume
this dish in darkness
and indulged my appetite
food was but the first
it finished
when i had answered 11 emails
changed 7 channels
posted on 5 walls
watched 6 videos
burned 3 dvds
and cleaned the kitchen
as i returned to slumber
with but an hour’s distance
between me and daybreak
i wondered

if i could make
these 8 hours count
what sort of conversation
would God & i share?

written by The AOMuse