…………………………………………………………………………. January 5, 2012

Yesterday, awakening to the world, I saw the sky turn upon itself utterly and wholly. I wanted to rise, but the disemboweled silence fell back upon me, its wings paralyzed. Without responsibility, straddling Nothingness and Infinity, I began to weep.

- Frantz Fanon

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.  From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.  I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.  I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

-Sylvia Plath

No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge. The teacher who walks in the shadow of the temple, among his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith and his lovingness. If he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of his wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind.

-Kahlil Gibran

Unless sited in texts, all blog entries are original. COPYRIGHT © 1998- 2012 by K.Eltinaé. All rights reserved. Texts may be shared w/out permission as long as the author is cited with legal given name . Site may be linked as desired.

Parade/ January 2, 2012

They march the streets barefoot,

Fluffing and fisting pillows against the wind,

“We’ve been dreaming,“

They announce to huddled strangers at a bus stop.

Passing over them like bees, teenagers, airplanes.

The pillows were innocent bystanders,

Now they are ammunition, imaginary drums and tambourines.

Exchanging rhythms and handshakes of anarchy,

They have no commitment to religion or a family,

They are not missed or punished if found out of place,

All they have is a skin they never chose,

To live and pass time with.

We watch from inside our houses,

Debating Courage or Catastrophe?

Drinking Decaf, lifting weights,

As it snowed feathers and cotton around us,

Balance was lost and people forgot the rush,

Which had pursued them for years .

I am watching an image of a torn pillow on the television,

Vomiting and disappearing at the feet of strangers,

The violence of the scene made me edgy, heartbroken,

This was the freedom nobody believed in.

Papercut/ August 29, 2011

“You     can           write              me           letters.”

In raisins on the kitchen counter,

You are at work, making an honest living,

I’m washing down your gin and not recycling.

Dirty looks from the cashier at the bar,

Won’t get her far if she’s shopping for a smile,

Mine is out for awhile, ordering pizza with friends

Pretending to be a hairband at the park,

Some girls fall in love with, bend then break

A wishbone in the sandbox for a lucky dog or cat,

I guess that’s that.

So the face I wear isn’t fitted for an ironing table,

Or the spare guest room mattress,

You’re not exactly my choice for an actress,

You’ve got nothing to offer this stranger ,

No raisins left or drinks, go ahead offer him a story,

About the lovers you keep neatly on shelves,

Dust them off on occasion for company,

Heavy with resentment they prefer standing than your lap,

Show him your fingers, the cuts you have from the pages,

How sensitive he’ll find you and agree to spend the night,

You can be the perfect host, a gymnast

But you’ll miss me again, tomorrow

I’ll keep checking the post,

You can write me letters,

As you spread the breakfast  toast,

Working up an appetite.

I will bask in the butter you spread,

All over your imagination,

Change your clothes,

But my mind———————no chance.

Banshee/ August 25, 2011

The tears I shed splintered off

Your shoulders of Ice,

You patted my back like a stranger,

Handing me a newspaper to stand on,

As you hailed your taxi,

Splashing tears back, the color of my skin.

Your heart must have been manufactured

During the war, cocking itself with ease,

Eager to explore the blood or wine,

Served at your table that last supper.

You are sleeping sound in floral prints,

Heart tucked between an armpit and your neck,

I was the wreck that day,

You left smiling like a banshee.

On the beach you pretended to be the sea,

The sun your private property,

Always a cigarette short, but planning months ahead,

You met a man who fixed anything you said,

But grew bored and unamused,

When your ego started to get bruised.

Kicking, shoving making your point,

You move to areas clear of debris, friendships,

There you scan for floating hearts you can chat up,

We meet later on a boat, but your intentions wouldn’t float

You swallowed your drink down like poison, I watched.

Later at the bar you enjoy the music I could tell,

I admit, we all fell under its spell

Only snapshots in the dark remain,

Of your matted fur and murder.

Ahh…mud/ May 30, 2011

Ahh… mud again,

Footsteps… reminders, tracks for the spies,

Spinning lies like chiffon for the brides,

Where are the grooms?

Who snap fingers and pose for careful cameras,

Not too happy, frowning if reminded.

Is there any room at your table?

Oh then I suppose the floor will do,

Look at the mess I’ve made!

You polished that floor with your tongue

This mess must make you sore,

I’ll make them disappear,

Where’d you leave your tongue

Is that it by the door?

Can you fill the stage with your presence?

Or just marbles you run after for dramatic effect

My name is not Ted, I have heard what you said

And went straight to bed drowning in snot and drool.

Your spool is stuck in that tiger’s paw,

You think he’s trained  but I can’t really say,

You set up rings set them aflame,

Pretending, again that this is fame.

If I could pretend the way you do,

I’d build myself an igloo, slaughter animals for fur

Make a carpet, a flag, a cape to trail at your parade.

This tongue of yours does wonders is it a sponge?

It’s like I never left a mark!

Ahh mud why won’t you stay at the park?

 

Monk/ April 4, 2011

I could braid the hair on your back,
And you still wouldn’t sit straight
You must have been born in the water,
You avert traffic , gruffy as a doormat and always less welcoming.
You are sick of my sandwiches, desserts
I am a cave with echoes, a metro noisy with crowds
You honor repose, I pass by pretending I can’t hear
Your conscious begging for change.
Is there still no place?

You were afraid for your skin,
Must be expensive, wherever its been
You may be a giraffe with the better view,
A man or a woman, a lighthouse, a pole
You claim to have things under control
But your nails know different,
There is no still place.

In the stories, you are clever
But the pictures don’t correspond,
Preaching Sobriety to the toads in the pond,
They croak at your nonsense, your reflection,
Lion of Oz, why bother sharpening your claws,
Pop-culture jargon, empty elevator,
Sassy Attitude, Cheap Diva Imitator
Still there is no place
Continue living as you are,
While I build fences with the toads.

Sardines/ October 5, 2010

A door reveals four identical bodies,

Stinking of fear and hate for one another.

The first is a coward, guarding herself with placenta,

Stubborn as baby who is convinced she is invisible.

She goes kicking and screaming,

Collapsing on lips, the ground

Her blanket useless, an apology.

The second has a sense of humor,

He makes jokes and watches for reactions,

Laughing at his own absurdity,

Making more room for himself.

He is tickled by death, or perhaps it is gravity,

A satisfied tourist, departing with smiles.

The third plays back memories of the sea,

Committing to a different espace,  reality

Paralyzed by order and fate,

She arrives in the after-life, regal, a queen

Her worldly attachments dignified,

The richest in flavour.

The last inhales waiting, an angry balloon

He is fooled by interruptions, excited for his life

Luck he discovers cannot save him,

From the kitchen flies who punish and expose his pretenses.

Junkie/ September 23, 2010

One of your lips got caught in the door,

It shuts smoothly now, not like before.

Begging to be noticed, pleading to be heard,

I am sick of the night’s excuses,

But I savor her last words,

Watching as they descend, isolating speech and thought,

If I had known, your exit line faltered and got caught,

I would have saved it, somehow.

It is a spacious house,

With curves like a woman,

Balconies and secrets,

Not so easy to come by.

I make a living, you wait

Rolling carpet after carpet,

Resting your numbed feet.

You have left out the cheese,

For the mice, or my ego,

In the dark the cubes align,

Like bricks for a wall,

I do not stall or have second thoughts,

I keep them safe from you.

I greet your wild eyes,

Tracing the arcs in your ruined face

Remembering our history,

Before the selfish tourists,

Who wanted only flashes ,

Of who we were .

Le Mouton Noir/ September 21, 2010

My father does not listen,

He passes and passes,

Swearing places look familiar,

I cannot throw him keys from the balcony,

His circles are useless they make me dizzy,

I would send him pigeons, a telegram

I have arrived it would read.

But his doubts always hang,

Prey in the jaws of a lion.

My mother does not cry,

There is a river in her heart, four faucets

Each at it’s own pace pouring and pouring

She has patience for them all

But no space, slowly her ankles disappear

She is drowning because she opened gates.

In her house, there is a light that invites,

Jealousy from the Mediterranean,

Silenced they watch her kindness,

Unable to apologize.

My sister does not sleep,

She worries and worries,

About the children with no shoes,

The neighbor’s car and newly painted walls,

She keeps lists and markers in her purse,

She knows better than to curse, or follow fires

Her sole desire is to fall into a crevice

Forgiving as her childhood, but with fewer flowers.

Le Mouton Noir grazes in the shade,

The grass he prefers is really tobacco,

Numbing his limbs and knotting his fleece,

He wanders and wanders,

Not belonging to a Sheppard or flock,

Onlookers believe him to be lost,

Mad with independence,

He passes over the pasture

A blemished cloud absent of logic,

But never forgotten.

Kaman/ February 18, 2010

for I.A

You lost your back to laughter,

Empowered the crowd with your fall,

Had you made nothing of it all,

They would have passed dense as clouds,

That find their way again.

But you carried the blame like a turtle,

Making shelter of your guilt,

Assez this, Assez that

Obsessed with that lizard in your hat.

Lay out your palms and sigh

Speak only of what weighs on your mind,

Without pauses pre-designed.

There is algae in the water, of the statue

Where you stand,

Some argue it is negligence,

Others claim that it was planned,

It matters not the route , the doubts

You followed then,

How is your today?

Still walk around anxious, a purse heavy with rope

Just incase you drown or slip somewhere

Like in your horoscope?

I know you’ve let some people down,

You lived with that affliction,

Reaching for pendants across your chest,

Believing others know what’s best,

Where is your tongue vacationing?

Your eyelids thumbed shut; a garage door,

Your ambitions filthy ragged , a mess of a mop

That has fought hard against a stubborn floor.

Your spirit passes through chimes, your bones

I visit too, listening for cries

A cricket, a violin , a siren, at most

Yet always in disguise.

Martyr/ April 24, 2010

It could have been Eid in your mind,

Perhaps not as neatly designed,

The sacrifice you made caught my attention,

Handprinting blood over walls you destroyed

The careless, lazy, weapons  employed

Still sway in my mind like a hammock.

Ten stubby fingers with invisible blood:

Turn the ignition of a car each day without exploding,

Embrace a child who remembers them since infancy with trust,

Travel the body of a woman with lust,  believing he fears God,

You fear nothing.

Umbrellas offered shade on that day,

Gave you an alibi, bleach for your stutter,

You murdered a man, they made him a martyr,

Ink on Paper is no breathing son,

Especially in the way it was done.

Grief follows a family, like a migrating leaf

You drank tea twice at the funeral,

To convey your guilt or relief,

Walk away with murder, your fingers all intact

In a town of believers who blurr fiction and facts.

Fate is not a coat hanger,

Designed for the weight of your crime,

Walls will cave in, I trust it’s just a matter of time,

I will count you as a missing chair, a voice silenced by distance,

Where will the shade shift as you struggle and resist,

Who will keep the souvenir of your guilty fists?

Eavesdropper/ June 13, 2010

for O.B.W

I laid back to forget your gym and perfection,

Endless identical machines, occidental tiles.

Each ceramic slap, a birth, an invention,

Ads and offers I am tired of, guarantees,

No words you pawn could put to ease,

The gossip I’ve heard from the trees,

Their leaves I drink , but suffer.

In the lobby his hand travels her back,

Searching for souvenirs , a first time,

A wife he found by accident returns to an elevator

With fresh eyes, old keys, new fears.

Elastic with shock, avoiding her direction,

Rubber band of a hand, a shooting star of nerves

Savoring his confidence, with laughter she preserves.

The neighbor passes and smiles,

At the mutual curiosity of a breakfast grin,

She swallows pearls for wisdom,

To listen closely to what people fear,

Takes the pills her doctor prescribes,

Fastens them to her ears, the ocean does not sound

Of financial crisis or taste of bitter oriental spices.

It is the color of turmus, some sunsets even tiramisù,

Echoing with your ancestors…faces that resemble you.

Only a boat to Benin or Cameroon,

Would bring her knowledge, an extra moon,

Shores of tahini, afternoons of gambas, open doors

Avocado goosebumps, bannana roots, swaying trees

That will  keep secrets tucked between her knees

Long emroidered kaftans for the summer as you shop,

Knowing very well, the trees and I, eavesdrop.

Predator/ September 19, 2010

Your anger borrows many faces

Each night I wait for them,

With coffee , music, cigarettes

Running like the hands of the hour,

Menaced by you.

Tonight he is a father,

Distant and aloof,

Later you decide he’s a stranger on the roof.

With an unnerving smile,

Smoking brands you can’t find

Most nights you have trouble,

Making up your mind.

I dream of the death you have not met,

I’ve discussed it with a neighboring crow,

Who watches you starving to be touched.

His pity is a cognac I’m saving for the night

You think your age is an advantage

I should surrender to, and kneel,

I resist your neo-nazi sex appeal.

I am waiting for our eyes to lock,

The shock of the moquette will travel

Like an overdue revolution.

Liberating barefoot continents where patience has died,

Only then I’m afraid, will I be satisfied.

The crow needs a perching place, somewhere to be fed

I’ve offered him your head,

A makeshift bed

Free of all resentments.

The Moral Judgement of Butterflies January 29, 2011

Excerpts from the debut novel by K.Eltinaé