October 4, 2008 – 7:22 pm
Fear is a Rapist with papers–
Convicted sex offender–
So, keep your distance.
Listen, I know–
I have a witness
From the stars
And evidence–
Exhibit A:
My rectal scars. Read More »
Please note that an audio recording of the poem is available below
She will come
Oh, yes! She will come.
If I have to sprain an ankle,
She will come, she will come.
She makes like she won’t,
but that is just dumb.
Before the cock crows thrice,
She will come, she will come. Read More »
Please not that an audio reading of the poem is available below the text.
As hours flop,
And hours top,
And wiggle
side to side,
I laugh my self,
Guffaw my way,
Chuckle stuff
I have tried:
I feel it best
that I confess:
I have been
Called a quitter.
Just today,
I thought and lay
About a mound
of titters. Read More »
The thought of it excited her.
She discussed it with her tender peers.
They were open with anticipation
For confirmation of their fears,
For reprieve from waiting,
For a taste of the Garden,
Which lay in their heads ahead
Where exposure hardens.
The touch of it fulfills her.
She gushes it to her curious mates.
They are anxious for information
To process on prying dates,
To understand what lies ahead,
To shed away the prim,
Knowing what they are in to,
But now what’s into them?
Read More »
after the quiz,
looking in a mirror,
fussing with her hair
waiting at the door
for his walk, the dog
awaits his leash
our old dog
runs through fields
in his dreams
first deep snow–
one can hear the quiet
being quiet
involves more than just
being quiet
behind the red light
birds fly back and forth
over the highway
mid december walk–
dog sniffs carefully the new
yard decorations
fall fresh sun beams
on ceramic features
of carved irony
warm the deadened
impulse to breathe
green grass grows
on the other side
of the world
we desensitize the cells
until growth is abstract
feeling obsolete
we steal false smiles
and so standing
in the mire
of dirt and secrecy
shame skirts the issue
of my two feet
beautiful woman
they say
look at you…
Here in GC land, we thought this poem was especially pertinent considering the recent brouhaha over Barack Obama’s minister.
Please remember to enjoy the genius of Sim Stafford responsibly.
Sincerely,
The Editor
We sat in our seats awaiting His return,
“In the meantime, a word from out pastor.”
It’s the same thing every Sunday, man:
What the devil are we here for?
When the collection plate goes by I remember
Why I leave my wallet at home: Sitting on it
So long throws my hips out of line. Good thing
We kneel, stand, kneel, stand, kneel, stand, but
Not before setting our tongues on autopilot
To reaffirm our ability to memorize and recite
In the drone of unison. Man, I can’t wait—
Oh! There they go, robes and all: Damn, Read More »
Lalla M’Zouda took pride in the thicket of her burning bush.
“Gardens are the scene of assignation,” she told Moulay Aly.
“First, your tongue is to brush, barely brush,
the dew from the outer petals.
Penetration can only ensue with almost unbearable lightness.
The violets must be woken from their dusky sleep,
the marigolds plucked leaf by vibrant leaf,
the lobelias gently watered with saliva.
Only then may you proceed to the inner grotto,
now scented and alive with wetness as is a fountain hidden by moss.
A recess in which, as in virtually all heraldry of Eros, blooms the dark rose of ecstasy, magically unfolding.”
Lalla M’Zouda may not have come across Ariel
but knew that where the bee sucks, there sucks Moulay Aly,
who brushed his lips with what she called “my little honey.”
Or the nacreous spoor of the snail, housed in the recesses of the arbor.
“My bee,” she whispered, “is your sac now full?”
February 4, 2008 – 3:21 am
Dear Darling Readers,
These two poems are presented here together, because they are meant to compliment one another.
Mustapha Marrouchi is as glorious, and grave, as ever. It is a privilege to continue publishing his work, especially in these present, grotesque times.
I hope you appreciate. In fact, I know you will (I am arrogant, and hopeful, like that).
- The Editor
Another Father, Gone Missing
Her father,
goes the story,
is caught in a crowd of day laborers–
known to cluster at the driveway of the US Embassy in Baghdad–
and is swept into the back of a truck,
mistaken,
perhaps,
for a subdivision carpenter,
someone grimly determined to support his family.
The stocky men in the truck are cheerful and talkative,
and they motor up a smooth road into the hillside
where a severe beating occurs. Read More »
January 30, 2008 – 12:05 pm
in the courtyard–
box turtle and hummingbird
last year’s leaves
marking my place
in this year’s book
can we learn to look
at what’s there
without needing more?
in the bare bush by
the bare tree by the feeder
a flash–red–cardinal
