Us three here, them two piled bodies asleep, slumped,
Sahara windowed, we a meditation mix, mess a imagination,
amalgamation, them whizzing through books and buying
tea kettle and we debating abstractions of perception, we
dragging memories of streets of Marrakesh onto blue airplane
carpet, aisled and middled and windowed, fatigued with senses
overexploited, olive smelled, sponge cake brained, marmalade
and coffee bellied, haggle eared passengers of the USA,
swinging, swanking, swindling our way through Souks of spirit,
trying to cut a deal, burn a joint, vouch for country, fix ourselves saintly,
wash our eyes and return to Madrid, a little piece of Africa pocketed,
modified and demystified, for future reference in social situations,
around the fire, perhaps, shores of great lakes abound,
tongues a whirling, us all and them and everyone stork nested,
palace walled, preserved and deteriorating forever.
Dec 28, 2010
Stork Moon
There is a stork on the top of this ancient palace
wall that laid the moon in its nest like an egg
and the sultan declared it a national monument
but the people said let it be and time unraveled
and wars were fought and the sultan died
and his son was inaugurated while hands clapped
in the plaza and snake charmers played flute songs
and tourism tripled and the straw of the nest blew away
in the strong Sahara winds. The walls of the palace shrank
into museum decorations and when the stork returned
with food for the baby moon it found a vacant wall
and the habitat unrecognizably gentrified.
But the new sultan came to a compromise
with the people, for he was wise, and he encased
the moon in glass, set it in orbit outside the atmosphere
so that all could see, one night or the other, left
the culture content, everyone content except the stork
who perpetually flies from palace to palace seeking something
that he has forgotten, glides over the face of the water,
the glimmering reflection of the moon under his white belly
(just a shadow of the heart).
wall that laid the moon in its nest like an egg
and the sultan declared it a national monument
but the people said let it be and time unraveled
and wars were fought and the sultan died
and his son was inaugurated while hands clapped
in the plaza and snake charmers played flute songs
and tourism tripled and the straw of the nest blew away
in the strong Sahara winds. The walls of the palace shrank
into museum decorations and when the stork returned
with food for the baby moon it found a vacant wall
and the habitat unrecognizably gentrified.
But the new sultan came to a compromise
with the people, for he was wise, and he encased
the moon in glass, set it in orbit outside the atmosphere
so that all could see, one night or the other, left
the culture content, everyone content except the stork
who perpetually flies from palace to palace seeking something
that he has forgotten, glides over the face of the water,
the glimmering reflection of the moon under his white belly
(just a shadow of the heart).
Cock Moon Morning
Waking up to cock in the morning
after light on night because someone
wouldn’t sing the travellin blues
in comfort inn equivalent Marrakesh.
Look in mirror bathroom, hazy headed,
water undrinkable, them damn french kids
meandering early and le désir du Maroc
sitting on the shelf.
I want some tea! mint! make it what want I
and haggle price, I’ve lived full life, give me
hundred dirham, I’m a monkey, I’m a man,
I’m David Bowie singing Antoine Jackoff
over and over and over until café closes,
and lonely planet left on table, and thrust back
into streets to plaza, follow flute snake charmer
sound and eggs and oil and peeta pocket fried
cock morning in the rain.
after light on night because someone
wouldn’t sing the travellin blues
in comfort inn equivalent Marrakesh.
Look in mirror bathroom, hazy headed,
water undrinkable, them damn french kids
meandering early and le désir du Maroc
sitting on the shelf.
I want some tea! mint! make it what want I
and haggle price, I’ve lived full life, give me
hundred dirham, I’m a monkey, I’m a man,
I’m David Bowie singing Antoine Jackoff
over and over and over until café closes,
and lonely planet left on table, and thrust back
into streets to plaza, follow flute snake charmer
sound and eggs and oil and peeta pocket fried
cock morning in the rain.
Call For Prayer
drags on the heels of their shoes in the streets littered with
language and snake charmers, waves on the green starred
red flag, stands in the center of Plaza Jemma El Fna a neon orange
and green street cleaner, begs for dirham with crooked hunch
back, jingles money in hand to get attention, buzzes skinny
motorcycles between foodcarts, vendors and tourists, watches
christian missionaries backpacked and strutting embarrassingly
over patterned pavement kid in hand, pushes huge four celled
prison boxes containing monkeys in plain nakedness and injustice
on a Tuesday or Wednesday or whatever day it is, with the one legged
wheel chair spirit of religious dynamo heating up the ancient Arabic winds.
language and snake charmers, waves on the green starred
red flag, stands in the center of Plaza Jemma El Fna a neon orange
and green street cleaner, begs for dirham with crooked hunch
back, jingles money in hand to get attention, buzzes skinny
motorcycles between foodcarts, vendors and tourists, watches
christian missionaries backpacked and strutting embarrassingly
over patterned pavement kid in hand, pushes huge four celled
prison boxes containing monkeys in plain nakedness and injustice
on a Tuesday or Wednesday or whatever day it is, with the one legged
wheel chair spirit of religious dynamo heating up the ancient Arabic winds.
Moon Over Marrakesh (1)
watched in the streets, whistled at in the markets,
beckoned to sit down and eat strange food, ignored
when it’s time to pay, thrust into hordes
of foreign tongues, tempted by smells and colors,
haggled to, swindled, confused, bewildered, approached
like a stranger or an alien from another planet
or a millionaire throwing money to the streets,
tugged and gestured and swore at, ignorant
of any meaning, any fragmented understanding
of social dynamics in the Medina,
under an eclipse, so full,
in the bounds of four towers and wondering
about absolutely everything in sight.
beckoned to sit down and eat strange food, ignored
when it’s time to pay, thrust into hordes
of foreign tongues, tempted by smells and colors,
haggled to, swindled, confused, bewildered, approached
like a stranger or an alien from another planet
or a millionaire throwing money to the streets,
tugged and gestured and swore at, ignorant
of any meaning, any fragmented understanding
of social dynamics in the Medina,
under an eclipse, so full,
in the bounds of four towers and wondering
about absolutely everything in sight.
In the Absence of Moon
In the absence of moon there is not sun but a window
into what is not. A window into void, where seeps
the shadows of stars, where you are
and where I am, where starlight is diamonds
and headlights of cars on the walls where we all are.
Where a constellation of family hangs like a mobile,
and the distance between each star is taut.
You, who are no stranger to a soul,
and I, who am not determined towards familiarity,
it is here where we take respite,
in the absence of moon.
into what is not. A window into void, where seeps
the shadows of stars, where you are
and where I am, where starlight is diamonds
and headlights of cars on the walls where we all are.
Where a constellation of family hangs like a mobile,
and the distance between each star is taut.
You, who are no stranger to a soul,
and I, who am not determined towards familiarity,
it is here where we take respite,
in the absence of moon.
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