Four Saints and a
Demon Chewing Tobacco by Sergio Ortiz
These are the troubled times
of tortured folksongs,
before the last war
ended
and I am no reincarnation
of Dylan Thomas.
This is when I and I get married,
age together, die in Montevideo,
before the last war
ended
and rediscover the secret
of life
reincarnated as Allen Ginsberg
at the wake for Sal Paradise,
tobacco and Sunday paper in hand,
before the last war
ended.
I consider implants,
and reincarnate as Gertrude Stein.
The Smell of Sulfur
The odor of sulfur
is as strong as the company
brought to the podium of Titans.
Gaia and Ouranos spit
angry epithets at each other
in the armory on Boulevard
where the effigy hides
bottles of gin.
On television, the rib-tickling,
righteous Titan gets an opportunity
to explain the notion of drowning
in the desert to the nation
recently targeted by white supremacist.
The program furthers
The Graven image’s intent
to build a wall. Is it to keep some out,
or trap everyone in?
Women tip-toeing north
through the desert
leave an uncomfortable trail of blood
too long to ignore,
rivers of pearls buried under the roots
of ancient saguaros on Cristero soil.
Words pronounced
by the Shebang Smoking Idol
don't mean a thing
to thirty million butterflies.
They were there first.
The Portrait
Night winds coil the sunless hours
as daylight wiggles out of darkness.
A kingly fez, curved by a green turban,
spun round His hallowed head.
Humble, my beloved, the painter
could not gaze into His eyes
He took his hands,
so blessed, and smoothed
the crests on His garb.
The painter had no choice,
he bowed in shame.
Angel of Shiraz
At
7:30pm, Saturday, 23 October, 1982
four
armed guards pushed their way into Mona’s house.
Graceful Emerald with crystal pearl eyes
that wrap the embrace of children around your heart.
Chasing hammer cup
bur-singing
seventeen sonnets of love, so young
it pains the curb.
Three tic-tacs feel like years
searching the drawers.
The doorknobs grip the guards’ hands
as joyous temperatures rise
to their ruby peek.
“Loop lady, don’t say the emerald
is only seventeen.
Children follow what she speaks
like roses marching straight into Zion.”
I would die for You.
“Furkhundih, azizum joon mama.
Don’t worry. They are my brothers too.”
There are no good-byes
in that blindfolded prison of Sepah.
Leaf Mothers rush
from their heavenly chambers
in anguish to safeguard
the Emerald of Shiraz.
Insults, interrogations,
Bastinado.
The Angel begs for the noose
to let her be the last.
She says: I chant the
winds of change.
I will die for You.
Spring by Subhadip Majumdar
Between the sun burnt lips
There lie a spring
Where each flake of snow knows
The road to the forgotten bridge
I often cross it with that woman
Who would take me to a cemetery
And sit with me before a tomb
Her eyes, lit with a strange pain
Her naked lips still paint a smile
In those evenings of silence
When soon a night would come
Of cold numb snow
We sit in a room beside a fire
And talked about
Sleep on the winter bed
The frozen moon outside
Notebooks with half written words
And a surrender named
Old love.
Virgin Lines by Subhadip Majumdar
I would write those virgin lines
On the white breath in the mirror
With little madness of blood.
I often thought of crossing that border of shadows
Through the half open door
The haze of the street lamp
The vacuum of a night highway
The sleepless eyes would search
A bit more of you
Perhaps that one touch never made
One kiss, promised
One mile of those forgotten dreams
I stand alone
Besides, silver tram lines
Where, love awaits
Naked.
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