Let Us Go Watch

Let us go watch while

the long rays of sunset

draw its light out

into the woods.

Made celebrants of darkness.

Life everlasting.

Here in this moment.

But also always all around.

Let those photons

bend our corporeal presence

to something angelic,

something where forgetfulness

and remembrance

is humbled by insignificance

of awe.

I’ll take tea with her,

in the club of existential poets.

Make me out of stars, fair father.

Tell me I am queer, dear weird,

dear mother.

Oh god, mothers are always

left apologizing.

God damn left handedness.

Let the day turn.

The trees stand.

Vines grown gnarled and green.

Trees reach out.

And the light will find its way.

Books closed and written

in the stupidity

of Earthling humans.

And night borne of morning words.

That old cellular way of consciousness.

Love and radiation.

Morality And Mortality

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

Portions of me
were an orange from Valencia.

Portions of me
spoke to my classmates
in an auditorium in college.

Portions of me
walked through the Agora
at midday
with pieces of billion year old
dust all around.

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

You turn your eyes away from
these words.

You’re wrong too,
opps, wrong again.

The evening sky burns pink
and orange
turning carbon particulates
into our lungs.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

The Inequalities Of Women

She lived
while other women
in her church
died,
got breast cancer,
had heart attacks,
grew old.
Her arms stayed thin
on the bone
while others got fat
and flabby,
marbled with vericose veins
and their breath grew
stale and sour.
She felt the fallen masculinity
in the men around her,
their loss of heroism,
though she loved her husband
nonetheless.
She knows this is what
our way of life offers,
so she lived in the moments in between,
the trips to
the nursing home
to visit friends
and the turning of the
Bible pages.

The Chum Date Never Made Her Wedding

Mature with me
Be immature
Hide the salt and pepper shakers
Grown old
Your bones
won’t have the chance again
to do stupid things
Fickle flicks
Preserve self image
The undead are dying
The dead live upon our breaths
The dead babies are being forgiven
in heaven
He has stale bready breath
Hide the salt and pepper shakers
Make rain
Look at the windows on Main Street
Down there she killed herself
ultimately
Mature with me
Be immature
Pull away
Now the funeral procession
heralds the west winded ghosts
and the cafe waits back in childhood
They’re tracing over couches
Your parents while crying
drove the car home
for their tender memories
past the corn fields and shopping strips
the red airplane hanger

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Appointment With Directors

Chase the hills in Mexico,

followed the tones of your skin into shadows,

by the morning the sun was there

all eyes were open
and the beaches bartered eternity,

I reached for a tortilla.

The moss and mold hid, then fell apart
underneath
the eyes of the onward looking directors of Universe.

Afternoon cascaded down your legs
dribble dribble
and my head feels so good,
I smell the old plants,

let me eat the oranges in a still room,
god damn, I am an old man.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Spell

Who’s been noticing
the urine stains in my underwear?
Who requested
the memories that I lost?
Who’s been etching a rock
upon is claimed “there is asylum”?

… the Apostles?

Who cuts the grass
when the current lawn boy moves away
(not from this place, but from himself)?
Will the next lawn boy stay,
and find meditation
in his chores of repetition?

… all of us … do we?

Who fed me sodium all my life?
In amounts extreme;
an addiction to such spice
my liver must I trust.

The timbers of my blood have fallen.
Do you have the courage of imagination
to raise them?
Do you know the conifer-king of
ionized ever-greens?

… only one;
the answer or the question,
the animal or the human.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin