Thursday, April 30, 2015

NaPoWriMo 2015 day 30 poem 30: TIME OUT OF TIME

i don't know why i dream of old friends. friends who no longer exist. friends who it seems were never friends. people i can no longer help so i flip my collar up against the cold and shrug my shoulders as if my name is not eva when they call out from across the street, waiting for the bus, staring off vacantly to drive home the point of non recognition.

i don't know why i pine for old loves. loves who were never loves. loves who beat the shit out of me, literally and figuratively. loves who loved to hate me. loves who lied, stole, broke me down little by little until the crashing rose back up to roar a fury that still echoes across the city, bouncing off alleyways where they thought they had left me for dead.

i don't know why i fixate on history. history that can never be rewritten no matter how hard i try. history that was history before it became history because the moment was inevitable and i had no desire to turn away from it. history that welcomed me like only history can, enslaving the minorities, lifting up the enslaver, smiling at the children memorizing the lies written down for forever. history that can never be her story, only his.

i don't know why i expect more. more must turn to nothing eventually. more makes us greedy, more makes us selfish, more makes us blind to the riches already existing. more is just an excuse for what is lacking inside.

i don't know why i wait for you like i do. waiting through the rain, through the wind, through the heat. waiting for trains, waiting for buses, waiting for fast cars speeding down neon lit boulevards where gypsy whores rock skirts i covet. waiting for money to buy our future. waiting for airplanes to take off, waiting for airplanes to land, waiting for phone calls where your voice sounds tinny, shouted down the line across oceans, across worlds torn apart, making the difference between waiting in the first world or the third.

i don't know why my reflection reflects such a ghostly reality. Reflection reflecting pain masked behind tired crazy blue eyes. reflection screaming hard reality, reflected hard truth, reflects the same old story over and over and over until the mirror smashes cutting up the reflection into disfigured shards that mix with the blood pooling around my feet but when i look down there go those eyes again.

i don't know why i dream about ancient ruins i have never visited. dream about drugs i no longer consume. dream about sicknesses my body does not have. dream about babies never born. dream about fathers who left two years, five months and twenty four days ago. dream about wounds long healed. dream about dreams i do not possess. dream about nightmares i can not wake up from. dream about all of my hopes and dreams until i make myself sick with want. dream until the alarm sounds. dream until i travel to next. dream with such reckless abandon they call me a mad woman, dancing freely, swaying with determination. dream because there is nothing left. there is nothing to lose. there is nothing but the dreamer in the dream haunting the dream time. dream to create. dream to forget. dream to be anything. dream to be everything. dream to be nothing.

i don't know why i dream. i don't know how i could not.

© Eva El Beze April 30, 2015

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

NaPoWriMo 2015 day 29 poem 29: 2015

kiss me hard before the tear gas hits the crowd. look into my eyes one last time in case you are gunned down dirty as a dog in the gutter. hold my hand before they make that illegal too. wrap your arms around me as i whisper how much i love you so it is the last thing you hear before they rip us apart for insubordinate behavior.

walk along the beach at sunset before the sand itself is so toxic the soles of our feet bubble and burst from exxonmobile, BP, chevron residue left behind after mad science gone terribly wrong. take a deep breath savoring the crisp natural quality the air still holds for tomorrow you can buy a gas mask in different colors, designs, quality to help eliminate the masses. dive into a deep blue ocean while waves are still liquid because i see solid walls of trash forming to inhibit playful splashing. climb a tree while one still stands.

kill a cop before one kills you. leave your legacy, loudly, lest they erase the evidence, rewrite the story, burn the names recorded of innocent victims fallen too soon. tear down a wall so your neighbors can watch as you are dragged from your home, guilty until proven innocent, innocent unless black. burn this mother fucker down, all the way down, until the ashes blow to the four corners exposing the injustices of dictatorial governments across the globe.

put down the smart phone, they want you dumbing down, disengaged, blind leading the blind. unplug the television before we begin to believe the lies propagated by big brother, GMO fed sheep hoping we stay plugged in rather than tuned in to truth. open yourself up to the possibility that everything we have ever been taught was a long anticipated, pre planned agenda to keep us locked into fear. stand up as a soldier in this war against humanity.

look down at your plate, is it filled with murder or pacification? ask yourself why we should be treated better than the meat we consume. decide where peace begins, with them or with me? extend compassion to all sentient beings.

decide the only change coming will be one we create. put your money where your mouth is, bull doze rigged voting booths where the fat cats sit up high laughing at our innocent assumption of democracy. refuse to decide between the devil or hell. demand equality through anarchy, freedom through revolution and peace through any means necessary.

separate your gods from their monsters. separate yourself from the activists and you will be sorely mistaken. separate right from wrong. separate these dirty crooked forces from their weapons and turn the tables to let them run in fear.

now or never. today, not tomorrow. stand our ground. refuse the indoctrination.

© Eva El Beze April 29, 2015













Tuesday, April 28, 2015

NaPoWriMo 2015 day 28 poem 28: SAVING SOULS

hey man.

listen man.

can you help out a little bit?

can you spare some change?

hey man.

listen man.

can you spare some time?

can you spare some understanding?

hey man.

listen man.

there are men being murdered in the streets.

there are states, governments, institutions, hell bent on destroying minorities no matter the repercussions.

hey man.

listen man.

i saw the news saying those protesters are out of control as if the 60's never happened.

i saw videos of angry black men with police looking innocent as if they have no clue why.

hey man.

listen man.

sometimes you have to fight for what is right regardless of how scared you may be.

sometimes you have to destroy the current degradation in order to rebuild a just oasis.

hey man.

listen man.

doesn't it feel like we are living in some fucked up futuristic time reversal of jim crow era's resurrected where only one side is right and that is the side wearing the badge.

doesn't it feel like if we don't join together to fight now we will never have the chance to fight again lest we be shackled and shipped off to a country where we can be taught proper lessons for the next two hundred and forty five years.

hey man.

listen man.

do you hear that?

do you feel that?

hey man.

listen man.

now is the time.

now, or never.

© Eva El Beze April 28, 2015










Monday, April 27, 2015

NaPoWriMo 2015 day 27 poem 27: LIFE OF A BIRD

we could coast along the shores of the world soaring high on love, pecking at grains in the sand, landing gracefully on a branch to rest in a cozy nest.

we could swim the oceans of the world, sending inaudible jokes of echolocation across time, across space, to the universe infinite as dolphins splash in our foamy cresting trails.

we could gallop across african deserts, savannahs, blending in with the baobabs watching patiently as gazelles sip from oasis's burning in fiery majestic sun's, matching the kings roar rippling to the far corners of the camped nomadic tribes.

we could hitchhike in gypsy caravans across europe stealing smiles, trading laughter for a hot meal, picking carefully through the mud of rain soaked streets where my gold will buy what we need deciding where to go next, italy or spain, england or france, home is where the heart is.

we could train hop across india lulling ourselves to sleep against the relentless rocking pockmarked with cries of biryani, biryani, biryani, chai, chai, chai, kerala, kerala, kerala, karnataka, karnataka, karnataka, pune, pune, pune, margao, margao, margao, bombay, bombay, bombay, as we kajal our eyes, bargaining for a discount and munch on dosas in the early morning chill of majestic sunrises.

we could drive across north america snapping pictures of iconic road side attractions, measuring our growth against records scribbled on diner napkins, learning the words to dylan, getting lost to discover old friends, saying thank you we are home.

we could escape to the forest to learn indigenous ways, sacrificing modern day conveniences to band together rejecting societies need for consumption as we make our own language that cocoons us inside hope, inside unity, inside the three of us.

we could hibernate all winter to emerge fresh, hungry, playing on fast melting icebergs slapping at jumping fish as the wild flowers bloom along the coast and mankind encroaches on us pushing us further and further into habitation.

we could stay like this forever, miles from nowhere, taking our time, going as slowly as possible in order to freeze this snap shot of in between.

we could pretend these days will never end, somewhere between boys and men, somewhere between love and lust, out here where you still want a hug, out here where i still matter.

we could look back on these years remembering fondly how we coasted, swam, galloped, hitch hiked, train hopped, drove, escaped, hibernated, stayed and pretended until you all grew up leaving me with these precious memories of the jewels of life i created.

© Eva El Beze April 27, 2015



Sunday, April 26, 2015

NaPoWriMo 2015 day 26 poem 26: CONSTANTINE CRUISE LINE

the barber shop above the police station was blown up frightening the family into immigration.
forcing their hands to pack one suitcase each as mobs of violent protesters hunted the streets for jews, for the french, for anyone who did not show their anger adequately.
this was the holocaust no one was talking about.

this was all after eight years as a prisoner of war living on apple cores and garbage.
this was after almost going blind in solitary confinement where the rats became confidantes.
this was after he realized god does not exist but for the grace of dying sick as a dog, thrown away into a pile of corpses hoping someone sends word to the family that already forgot you.
this was after he convinced the nazis our name was for a river running through the superior lands.
this was after he stumbled home, unrecognizable, ashamed, sorry he had to go back to the wife and son he would rather forget.

the boat pulled away from the dock.
i am told my grandmother wailed worse than an animal.
worse than the hungry ghosts who roam the shadows waiting to steal souls, newborns and dreams.
the boat rocked over waves as angry crowds left behind threw rocks, shouting to never come back.
the boat splashed away from the dock as the hopeless ran and jumped to fling themselves on board, missing by a mile, drowning in the white frothy peaks.
i imagine he fingered the gold sewn into the seams of his coat hoping no one searched him lest they be even more destitute upon arrival.
i wonder how scared his son was not knowing if the boat would make it.
if it were to sink somewhere out there between home and the unknown.
disintegrate somewhere between africa and europe.
dissolve into the foam of the mediterranean, floating endlessly on a piece of broken ship hoping rescuers come.

seven crowded into one room behind a corner store where there was no bathroom, no breathing room, a hot plate, a sink and the silence of defeat.
arab muslims on one side, european jews on the other.
prostitutes down the street.
they were too jewish for the muslims so no one acknowledged how arabic was their first language.
no one acknowledged how they were one in the same, in the same position, longing for the same homeland, weeping into the same orange blossom water laced espressos.
they were too arabic for the other israelites.
what kind of a jew speaks arabic? what kind of a jew hennas their hands?
what kind of a jew cooks that stinking arab dog meat food?
no one acknowledged the sabbath was still respected.
no one acknowledged they had relatives gone forever in the same senseless war.
no one offered a helping hand so they forgot their language, they ducked their heads, they laid low.
they decided to not make a fuss.
they hunkered down seven in that back room to hope one day they could go home.
one day never came.

his son made pocket money running errands for hookers.
roller skating all over paris buying milk across town where it was cheaper than the delivery truck so their little store could survive.
he saved up his money to open another hair dressers.
you refused to blend in with a culture that did not want you.
i always admired you for that.......

now the refugees come hell or high water.
now they fling themselves onto anything that will float.
at least war makes citizenship a bit easier to come by.
offered in exchange for loyalty.
these generations can only hope to sneak in.
they can only hope to make it and rebuild a life with benefits.
the government turns its head at the sight of screaming, cold, hungry children littered throughout temporary camps.
they do not want to take responsibility lest they admit to the years of advantages taken in these peoples homeland.
maybe if they arrived with barrels of oil, sacks of gold, buckets of sugar they could buy their way onto promised land.
maybe had they been born earlier they could have been on the same ship as my family back in 1960.
now the immigrants are desperate.
risking life and limb to have what we were born into.
now the stakes are betting neither side will win.

© Eva El Beze April 26, 2015

Saturday, April 25, 2015

NaPoWriMo 2015 day 25 poem 25: ELECTION DAY

you keep saying Goodluck is bringing good luck but i wonder what the families of the decapitated think?

i wonder if there was a rush of silence the split second after the chainsaws were revved up?

vibrations of despair shaking villagers to their core.

a moment of clarity as the nuances of burning life possessions carried across the winds, choking the fleeing masses.

kerosene mingles with the smell of freshly fried akara......

i ask if my mother in law, sister in law, brother in law are safe?

are they frightened?

you shrug your shoulders noncommittally muttering that you are not from the north as you book a ticket home for business.

don't go i think but i keep my worries to myself until i can not.

until i must point out the fact that the biafran war did not contain itself in the north.

it floated from state to state mowing a violent path through history.

until i urge you to remember your mother almost starved to death as a young girl during the war.

ask her, i am sure she remembers.

until i remind you of all the times you yourself have said how dangerous home can be.

until i remind myself you will answer, “ what to do? “

© Eva El Beze April 25, 2015






Friday, April 24, 2015

NaPoWriMo 2015 day 24 poem 24: JESUS'S MAGDALENA

there are monsters hiding in shadows, lurking in valleys of death with long talons ready to gouge your eyes out, patiently stalking victims to rape her into oblivion, smiling sweetly when questioned that they would never be capable of such crimes.

there are gods floating between heaven and hell waiting to save our souls, waiting to dip you into purifying waters where sins are washed clean, sinners given new slates, eyes downcast at the mention of hoaxes, shams, beguiling the public.

i picked through the trash looking for a rig to hold up to the light where i could check if air bubbles proving it was never used still existed as you bargained with the dealer and i rubbed my eyes raw, twisting my oily hair around a cut bloody hang nail, staring up at the moon wondering what is up there.

she sold it for so little, so often, she broke herself way before he had the chance but blaming someone else is always easier than taking responsibility for lives ran into ditches, hearts sauteed, served fresh on beds of despair as the fat sweaty one haggles over the price of a blow job.

he never had a fighting chance once that acrid paint thinner, cough drop, rat poison meth hit his lungs sending him off into days of no sleep with visions of the messiah beckoning him forward, just a little further, keep going, take another hit, go go go go GO, and when the high ain't good no more slam it for a whole new rush.

the bath tubs at the crystal were extra big and the beds were pretty clean so i thought it was love, real true never ending blissed out love when you ran me a bath, lowered me in, handing me a nice fat joint laced with a few crack rocks where the warm hot water relaxed me into fits, giggles, where i could care less about the maniacs screaming down on the streets and any hunger vanished as i begged for one more, one more, one more so i could be a good girl.

there are memories hiding in the recesses of my mind where sometimes i choose when they come out and sometimes they slap me hard across the face laughing that i ever think i can escape them, change my life, it ain't the drugs that make you a junkie, it's just these pictures floating out in black holes coming through real fuzzy at first, gaining clarity until tears roll down my cheeks making me wish i had a different set to choose from.

there are lost souls knocking at the doors of humanity begging to be let in as we turn the television up a little louder to drown out their moans deciding which color nikes we want next as the microwave dings signaling another nutritious chemical laden meal is ready and the sounds of bull dozers running over the poor is background noise to men of color being gunned down in the streets.

jesus's magdalena weeps as she strums a banjo leading the caravan out into the desert to wander for another forty years until we wake up to the circus our world has become and jesus preaches against these times that are changing, these governments deciding, these police getting paid to be murderers, these animals slaughtered to decorate plates, these young boys stitching clothes for a dollar a day as we lament the rising price of cell phone bills, gasoline, plane tickets, selfishness, idiocy, ignorance.

amen.

© Eva El Beze April 24, 2015