Girl Raised On Olive Oil

I’m
hooking up
with a girl
raised on
olive oil.
She asked me
if the stones
at her feet
I had cast.

She
must
mistake me
for a
civil engineer
of the Roman Army,
but
I prefer
to remain
shy.
I was never proud
of my
conquering heritage.

Who cast
the obsidian
of her pupils?
I am
proud
of them.

Who poured
the water
that sweats
from her feet?

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
lovers of the century thumbnail image Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)

Both Brains

They let him go
when he was particle-composed and had died of
cancer,
drifting through outer space
they let him go,
the people’s race of peoples didn’t own him,
floating past nationalism and liberty
as cancer an infinity emulsified
the mortal equation,
the surmountable forms of gray ways,
child without childhood
you picked at these fingers,
the seven wrinkles, your chance to perceive things
but accelerating away,
faster than cycles of sun or moon,
with the forms and “words” of humanness,

standing as a sun-drenched field before a 7-11®,
in light
a parent kisses their child at college,
the smell of wet tallgrass.

They got to go to college,

wave wave . . . wave wave
the forty classes

wave, for the presence of Einstein.
The ports and portals are much different.

Sacramento, California, 27 July 2003

The car arrives at Point One.

The other car makes its presence kin
to the car in opposition.

This is not mere car at Point Two,
but rather car between
Point Two and Three –
(the car at) Point Two and Seven Eights.

The car in opposition dear Titus,
the emperor is in danger.

If he makes a move right now,
then he is in Concourse,
… like checkmate.

Look at the men on top of the building.
They lay with rifles and binoculars.
They are
the Dispatched Guardians of Hegemony.
Always white, or at least in the appearance
of proper white males.
Yes, tightly cut hair, tight shirts, watches,
sunglasses, body spray.
Yes, always males.

They checkmate us, checkmate us.
Checkmate our freedom.
The Dispatched Guardians of Hegemony.
You allow them.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
antipoémus thumbnail image Antipoémus (poetry book)

The Trites Of Triteleeville

 

A middle age couple in love
on an overcrowded train

They’re wealthy, no one else
here is

That’s the way of these trains

She comes from a long line
of calculated genetics

and
furls her brow like a young girl
in a North Renaissance
painting

He holds her hand

She tends to his tie

They are like children
amongst the working animals