Like Names on Bathroom Walls
Posted by Aysha El Shamayleh | Filed under '08 Fall: Notes from Underground, Poetry, Print, Show Poems
We were children…
Born alive,
we survived some nights only prove to you we were odd looking miracles.
He was hardheaded like our dictators,
often found running clinch-fisted
feet stomping the concrete paving our playgrounds.
at mid day, we would write our names on the walls of narrow alleys,
let the sun rays stare at them.
they were everything we could call ours.
Besides…
We were just like our countries,
Arab, and messy.
our kings treated world maps as if they were high school bathroom stalls,
signed I was once here Mr.
As if the world ever gave a shit.
well, unlike our kings,
we were no fools.
we wrote the names and then laughed at ourselves.
“unapproved sovereignty”
we hid under our beds waiting to get caught by the parents.
like Saddam hiding underground waiting to get caught by America
it was only a matter of time.
but we…
we laughed,
and I wished the world would for once take notice of something beautiful before its gone.
Because after that mid-march night they held him down.
too much of a coward I watched from a distance,
Never seen him this fragile,
look,
never this weak,
cuz this time he wasnt stomping with his feet scaring the kids around,
his face was pressed against the concrete,
we was bent down.
arms and legs spread apart like a 9/11 airplane crashed on ground.
One older man had his pants down,
and the others were keeping the boy in place.
I was only a child but old enough to know
This isn’t how it should go,
Men would push in and out in the wrong places,
and they would alternate on him,
his screams might’ve been pleas
I dont know,
they were hesitant, they would break,
and then sound.
I hear him break under their weight,
If you were standing in my shoes, maybe you would’ve swallowed the silence too,
But maybe not, maybe you would’ve joined them,
They were done with him now,
his crevices filled with more semen than they could hold so it overflowed,
promising no children,
no legacies of whatever this is.
please understand we used to walk around with lollipop rings on our left hands.
I guess we were kids
naïve enough to think the world ever owed us something.
Maybe a dream, or a future,
After all, we were fools to think the world ever took notice.
They walked out on him,
one by one,
no one looked behind.
he stayed laying on his belly for a while
mind conflicted,
then he stood up and i wished he didnt
eyes pouring.
He’s naked
rectum burning,
and blood barely dripping down his thighs…
tell me what is there for us to love now,
we were curious kids, but we never wanted to know
we were as fragile as this,
left behind with
only disgust,
only nausea,
only stench of blood and sweat,
and semen
and wrong sex,
he was suicidal,
like civil wars raging within his skull’s confines.
untaught how to love,
we were beasts
no longer children
after this
not knowing what to expect from anyone around,
all we wanted is that they keep their fucking hands off us.
he survived that night, then chose to live though the ones after it,
only to make it to the day when he can look you in the eye
and tell you I was once here Mr.
like a name on the wall of a high school bathroom
begging you to take notice.
But on world maps he would always sign his name
Iraq.
see its you who’s doing it…
raping him.
see people and countries are the same thing,
he’s bent down,
and he has blood barely just barely dripping down his thighs.
…you’re pulling out now…
..walking away.
Like You, Joan
Posted by Enmanuel Martinez | Filed under '09 Spring: Dream of a Ridiculous Man, Poetry, Print, Show Poems
St. Joan of Arc, you managed to preserve your self,
died at nineteen: a virgin—
having given your self to God.
What all did he whisper to you
in the fields behind your house
as you tended to cattle and adolescent dreams?
Did he say that he was love?
Give you of his body and tell you to eat—
what ecstasy! Did he leave
stigmata on your feet and palms,
as he has done to so many other girls?
Why do men hurt that which they love?
This was your first calling,
though you were not his first.
Where you his last?
Unlike you, Joan,
I had no cattle or sheep to tend,
only the heavy solitude that is inherited
by middle children and only sons.
No fields to run through or pastures
in which to hide, only then to be found by God—
only concrete and crack-house-corned streets.
Playtime was in the basement.
There, I often danced
alone in front of a ceramic statue of Christ.
His eyes we empty, hollow,
hiding everything yet nothing.
But his eyes were always on me, so
I danced for him, giving
of my body—Eucharist incarnate.
He was always willing to watch.
Never did he look away, never
told me to stop. Always observant,
silent.
Nighttime: parents out of the house,
my face pushed into pillow and sheets,
arms and legs outstretched,
palms placed up. My body,
a human cross—juvenile crucifixion,
though I prayed long and hard
for God to save me and
give reason to my suffering!
He response: silence.
No divine intervention.
His hands we rough,
smell of smoke and taste of wine on his lips.
Told me I was special.
Like you, Joan, I was to be a vessel.
In me, he implanted his divinity.
I alone carry that burden,
knowing that, one day, it will be the death of me.
But Joan, you were the special one,
not I. God was always with you,
led you through all harm and danger
and into Heaven.
I was forsaken—a sacrificial lamb maybe.
My dream had always been of martyrdom.
Little did I know that I was destined
to play the role of victim.
Like you, Joan, I too was not spared.
But where was my God,
as I screamed and squirmed,
supplicating him to stop.
Maybe it was that he could not hear me?
Was his mind unhearing to the shrills
that one omits when skin stretches,
rips and bleeds?
Maybe it was that he did not care to?
I listened to the example of God
and learned to keep silent.
Did not speak out for the fear of being called
a heretic, a liar, insane, demented…
by those I loved.
Kept lips and eyelids shut.
I would not be burned at the stake like you, Joan,
but suffered the pains of betrayal all the same.
I was no martyr
but an outcast nonetheless.
I too now carry a cross, so
I call to you, Joan.
Tell me, how does one come to forgive
that which they fear and hate?
Be my staff and help me rise.
I have been bent over praying on knees
to a deaf God for far too long.
Your weapons were a banner, armor, an army, horse and sword.
My arms: penn, paper and this weary voice.
But I would trade mine for yours any day
if doing so came with the promise of victory
over past memories and
every man that prays on children.
I would wage a war,
its clamor so loud it wakes the dead
and God, who dreams on,
incognizant of his children calling.
Joan, will you be my saving knight,
the voice that does not abandon me at night,
in fire, burning coals or in the midst of mobs.
You don’t have to say anything just
yet. Only, give
me fruit that will not spoil and
grace that will not slip out from my hands.
Starbucks Alchemy
Posted by Enmanuel Martinez | Filed under Poetry, Print
Sitting in that arm chair,
in that café,
in that kind of way that left me
almost invisible
yet still vulnerable and susceptible to
the charged pumping of espresso machines,
conversation cacophony,
overhead jazz jamboree.
Amongst all that joint discord
was, I think,
where I fist started
to believe.
Funny that we ended across
from one another—
the distance of the room diving
itself in between us.
This coffee-lounge congruity
was no coincidence
but some predestined synchronicity.
A novice spell caster’s attempt
at a love spell maybe?
Because there was something enchanting
about the manner which you wore that striped, collard shirt.
Crisscrossed lines leaving me
in a trance and under
the sorcery of your distanced presence.
Excuse me if I seemed bewitched,
but I was spellbound
by the influence of your strong chin
and soft eyes,
silver-frame glasses and full crescent of a smile.
Sitting there in that arm chair,
I could do nothing
but dream
of tasting the hot-chocolate off the corner of your lip
or the possibility of learning the essence
of your alchemy.
And you must have been a witchdoctor
because I was possessed
by the black art in your brown eyes,
voodoo in your dimples,
the smooth charm glistening off your soft lips.
Sitting there in that arm chair,
I imaged taking your clenched hands,
opening them like books.
Like a devout medieval monk,
I’d study hard those illuminated texts,
memorize the prophecy of promise
written within the lines of your palms.
Like an image of Adam and God,
the warm touch of your fingertips
would jumpstart my heart,
granting me the ability to believe.
Inspired by your mortal divinity,
I’d paint a picture of your remote beauty
and title it “Renaissance Man”
because your were
too good to be true
yet were…
A modern-day Leonardo,
with all his flaws and insecurities,
sipping commercial coffee,
reading Marx.
Shooting Straight
Posted by Justin Reilly | Filed under '09 Spring: Dream of a Ridiculous Man, Poetry, Print, Show Poems
So I’m straight
Everyone here knows I date black girls
I eat red meat
Play basketball
And never talk about balls unless I am referring to the ones I put in the basket
Oh and when I am playing that game where u get other guys to look at ur balls
Then make them bend over and u kick them in the ass and call em fag
You know the game everyone learned how to play from that movie Waiting
Yeah I am pretty much your typical straight kid
Oh but what’s with dudes looking at you when ur in the shower
That shits gay
And so is that shirt ‘your wearing’ (dude in the front row)
And those shoes josh has on
Them shits r str8 homo
Dear Straight men,
You don’t always have to run from hugs
They aren’t dream catchers of your masculinity
That slowly drain your manhood as you sleep
I promise
Your brothers arms are not sleeves to a straight jacket
That suffocate your unwillingness to be sensitive
You won’t wake up the next morning
Drowsy with a fragmented memory of emasculation and shame
And if you shed a tear
You won’t drown
one Sunday morning in an affinity
For blonde haired men and know Jude Law is the only man that really could steal your heart
And even if this was possible
Maybe just maybe
Your would understand
That love does not know gender
It does not know limits
It only knows heat
The sweltering breath exchanged by two lovers
That only emerges when 2 souls finally connect
Forget about everything
And lay naked
Just so their Prop 8 sanctioned wardrobe won’t get in the way
Stop calling things gay
Ignorance is not bliss
Or chanting no homo
After every Freudian slip
Just because you are too insecure to admit
That every time you get in the shower you are worried about whose bigger than you
Quit acting like men
are flirting with you when they ask you for the time
Straight women don’t want to get with you
What makes you think gay men are any different
Intolerance is unattractive
And those prejudicial handshakes aren’t getting you laid anytime soon
Dear gay men,
Stay strong
Stay hungry
Stay passionate
You see
I’ve got love
For love
Any man, man enough to fight for someone
He loves
knows that life
With all its beauty and splendor
Is worth nothing
If you have not found something to die for
And I know
The day will come
When you can just blend in
Walk hand in hand in the busiest of parks
And kiss at the perfect time when the sun is barely peeking through the trees
Hallmark will make anniversary cards with this image not just printed
But branded on the front cover
Next to the word Perfection
And I’ll smile
Because I know that the true meaning of equality
Is the ability to fail miserably like the majority
The freedom of my best friend to marry the wrong man
Forgo marriage counseling
Get a divorce
And have everyone giving him shit for not leaving him sooner
Not for marrying a man in the first place
Dear somewhere in the grey area men,
Take your time
Revel in the very idea the unknown
And keep ‘em guessing
Because you know as well as I do
Watching them scratch there heads as you pass
Is a humble victory in it self
And I hope when you do find love
You will shout at the top of your lungs
Fuck a closet
Stand on a roof top
Inhale the anticipation
And exhale the beauty
That on this day
They can’t touch you
Even though you and I both know
They have never be able to
And we’ll smile
Knowing this is just beginning of a struggle
but we will embrace it
etch LOVE on our knuckles
knowing that we will not go quietly
we will not go passively and if they can’t except that
we will brand their hearts with our fists
and then kiss their foreheads
to show them that tough love does still exist in our world
and we won’t give up on them
because a wise man once told me to turn the other cheek
let them know we have no problem taking their lashes
because
battle wounds are sexy
and these men hold no weight in our world
ill leave you with this
smile at their snares
and wave back at their bigotry
because at the end of the day
there is nothing more beautiful than an unaffected smile
on a lover at midday
when sun is perfectly set in the sky
and no one can else can touch you
but then again
you and I both know
they never could
