This Passover I shall pour out wine for the spilt blood this year:
In Israel and in Palestine,
In San Bernadino,
In Stockholm and St. Petersburg,
In Afghanistan and Iraq, yet,
In North Korea,
In Somalia and Nigeria;
How many more plagues do You inflict on us?
Ten times ten thousand sorrows afflict these
You crafted from clay and
to wear on the world You Gave
and Man accelerated decay,
craftily choked it with carbon,
but it made buck,
and at what a bargain].
Where tyranny still reigns triumphant,
and shall mourn in this celebration
that we are so much further from
Tikkun Olam תיקון עולם
than it seems
that we have ever been.
I would wish a chag sahmeakh חג שמח
but I cannot muster it,
for all this
Blood in the sand,
“This year we are slaves.
Next year may we be free:
So – I have been keeping up with the Challenge but have been super-busy and under-the-weather. Took a health day today and stayed in bed (and on my computer) working. That “time-off” was well spent in that I now have Days 28, 29, and 30 edited and formatted, just waiting for your perusal! Like in all the other posts, read the play by clicking the title. Hope you enjoy!
Posted in #31plays31days, #31Plays31Days, Fiction, Love, Non-fiction, Opinion, Personal, Plays, Prose, Theology, World Events
Tagged #31plays31days, actors, auditions, Bible, blood, comedy, cum, damnation, death, Erica Griffin, eyes, fatherhood, fiction, fights, happiness, hate, healing, heart, heartache, hell, history, hope, humor, Jean-Paul Sartre, Judaism, Las Vegas, life, light, Love, memory, motherhood, mythology, No Exit, passion, personal, plays, religion, Satan, science, sex, skin, skin cells, sperm, Tarot, technology, theater, University of Pittsburgh, wisdom, writing
Had another poem in me today – I think this is the real one that wanted out, so I’m posting ahead of schedule. Have a day off tomorrow, so I may check out the UNLV Poetry Event – have a show at night, so between the two I may not get a poem in otherwise. This poem is just what’s been on my mind of late: hope you enjoy.
Posted in Love, NaPoWriMo, Personal, Poetry, Slam, Theology
Tagged Adam, Bible, Blithe Spirit, blood, conjuring, hemingway, Horus, incantation, Las Vegas, Love, magic, poems, poetry, Tarot, UNLV
Back alley Jesucoatl put a prayer on a lamp post and turned a phrase into fisticuffs for the sake of a sardonic religious experience.
Hour farther made art for heathens, hollow beef for fame, come kin do run, thighs wilt for fun, for mirth does come in sevens.
Seven sibils, seven fountains, seven samurai swatting scorpions – invoking old gods with new names as though antiques polished might shine differently – Santaria staples, saints sinfully reverted to former figures as in musical chairs, swap, Pop!
Goes the weasel easel actuating four-dimensional probiotic tonic, ticking time rhyme, ravenous for the requisite nutrients: blue 42, blue 42, hut hut, tut tut –
Uncommon Pharoah, fornicating out of incest, impure bloodline rock of ages, sage and myrrh tasting sweet on a sour palate, damnable deviations make for New World Order norms.
This is sanctuary stabilized by reverting to chaos form,
this is a storm just as you start to swim to shore –
nothing easy comes to those that prosper,
elements are all the same
will shine like
***This probably has a lot to do with me reading The Invisibles. Thanks, Grant Morrison.***
Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Traditional
Tagged beef, blood, boxing, chaos, fighting, football, Grant Morrison, Jesus, kin, mirth, musical chairs, New World Order, Pharoah, phosphorus, Pop goes the weasel, Quetzacoatl, religion, seven, The Invisibles, thighs
Hyperbole, the scars ripped and widening,
Silencing the pulse she hid behind a screen
Of sharp dulling whiskey and menthol cigarettes.
She tried to hide the smell but it still lingered on her breath,
Less impressed with herself but still harbored aspirations despite the fact that motivation had creased her and seen cessation.
She stayed up nights and cried,
Desperately wishing she had not survived but died,
Instead of living to make the world know the way she feels inside.
Posted in Fiction, NaPoWriMo, Poetry, Slam
Tagged alcohol, blood, cigarettes, fiction, homelessness, mental illness, poetry, rape, skin, teeth
Blood on my hands, though it wasn’t the plan,
questioning which of us is really the also-ran;
her grace untam’d by the days that my conscience
takes dominance and she’s braised with my obstinateness face-to-face.
Traces of her strength still hang upon my brow,
her scent that fills me with doubt;
which way to face the prow of my ship,
have I slipped? Happiness sealed with the stamp on the writ?
Legitimate to labor on the fear of its pretenses,
given the vision of hindsight in the lenses;
flexes physics with a feigning of proportion,
quickly set to dormant, and feared abhorrent.
Posted in Love, Poetry, Traditional
Tagged aches, blame, blood, burning, conscience, habits, happiness, healing, heart, heartache, loam, physics, plan, pyre, resilience, scent, shit, strength, time, tools, wounds