Arc

No,

not the papyrus cradle of Noah. Not the aggregate assault of all the animals in the kingdom. Not heaven

where dad is in his shirt sleeve's or Janae releasing to her province beauty and ceremony. Not the prism of a

powdered sky under the "rainbow covenant" where an old man cyphers and counts like slaves on ships heading

to South Carolina. But two of each unclean land animal; the serenade of the astral slang of a young boy in a hoodie

with his pants without a belt hanging low on his hips with slits in his eyebrows and a tattoo of a tear falling on 

his cheek. Dear reader: We are (all of us) in  a pot of dreams without prophets and antidotes for heartache. Large

hills are in the background as we deliver to each other, our semicircle cheap city blues no matter how it comes. Whether by  a poet in

a rumpled scarf or a trans woman of color throwing bricks at cops, it will be raining. Possibly. It will be dark. Probably. And

in this torment, someone's child is a soldier in a cartoon. In orbit. In shoes without socks. In no shoes.  In someone's

agreed upon synonyms for racism where all, even the unborn, will be delivered like triangular guitar licks on an

Albert King flying V. As the weeping failures that hang like loose cotton from us. Person. Default. Ownership. Love.

Even Trump in his sheikdom. No one. Not Melania in her salt bath, or Ivanka in the chestnut sea. Not Jared in his arched eyebrows. Not the moon confined to the cows who moo at passing lightning strikes. No one. But us/ reproduced to each half-

smothered exedra; the masonry of our own small illustrative personhood(s). But the bagman on the corner sells his weed

laced with fentanyl or his crystal meth laced with battery acid; both the palisades for our teenage daughters. That lure

your child head first into the bony moon disc of total destruction.. And when you are equipped with nothing more than a jacket for warmth in the frigid, hardened night and the cenotaph erected out of snow and ice is your only reflection. I know you. And you know that I, and seven pairs of each clean animal, they wrote, have been counted by some totally unkept old man in a wooden boat.

Yeah right!

Reviews

[barleygirl]

This is the most powerful thing I've read in about a year, here at the cafe. Wow! My socks are blown off. This is your distinctive style (nobody does this like you) & here you're taking your signature riff to the stratosphere. Your hypnotic outpouring would be mesmerizing, were it not so full of gut-level blows & visceral cringes. I don't even THINK these many thoughts in one typical day, out here in the wilderness, but I am marginally plugged-in enuf to know I wholeheartedly endorse what you're describing is what's really going on out there! You are courageous & bold & unapologetic. It's a heady elixir (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[h d e rushin]

wonderful, wonderful, words my dear friend....and I thank you for stopping by....dana

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

"Dear reader: We are (all of us) in a pot of dreams without prophets and antidotes for heartache. Large
hills are in the background as we deliver to each other, our semicircle cheap city blues no matter how it comes. Whether by a poet in
a rumpled scarf or a trans woman of color throwing bricks at cops, it will be raining. "
I cannot attempt to review this, but I feel it deeply. Righteous words. Enough said- other than brava....

[h d e rushin]

thank you dearest for those kind words.....dana

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

You are very welcome for praise so well-deserved. Stay safe and well.:))

[Robert Trakofler]

I haven't had a gasp and a chuckle like that from the ending of a poem in a very long time! I met a young author from the ghetto this morning his reflections were stunning like yours I instantly recognized his situational Alexithymia and yet in his penning you could hear his cry however shaded it the view was portrayed when you know it, you know... it! I became an instant fan just like I did with your pen a few years back and of course, I still am:)

[h d e rushin]

I have to give up growling. It's so unbecoming . But it supplies unwilling, literary hacks like myself an "out". Love poems are a journey, usually, a passage from one place to another and sometimes applied figuratively through the passage through life. I live in the moment to joust in single combat. So I leave love poems to those who know what love is like. But you're my hero. You and jacob systematically transfer distance into journey; voyage into excursion. Thank you my friend. it's my bedtime.

[Einstein Noodle]

filled with your ever sharpening social commentary .. vivid creative imagery and personifications .. shards of history and a big swing at hypocrisy, inequality and social injustice ... however ... a bit political without need ... balance h d .... balance and respect for both sides of this coin ... peace and love my friend .. love always :)
E.

[h d e rushin]

thank you love....and as usual, you are correct as hell. balance is the thing i'm working on. dana

[Einstein Noodle]

as we all need to .. it can be difficult when passions turn to brutality ... so glad i know you here .. i need your voice my friend .. and i love to hear it in your writing .. be well and stay safe .. i think/hope .. we are all getting around this plague thing ..

[NotUsinganymore]

Interesting poem about the cruel world today. There certainly are horrible stuff happening today.

[h d e rushin]

beautiful words jungLee....thanks for stopping by...dana

[NotUsinganymore]

Thanks. you are welcome

[m.s.early]

You have me waiting for the dove and the olive leaf.
One day... this too... even Jared's eyebrows... will recede.

[h d e rushin]

thanks love.....even the weak impersonate the strong. Thanks for your vision....dana

[Emily B]

Noah was too pragmatic to be a poet. But had Noah known about the power of words the world would be different now

[h d e rushin]

but I think he did know the power of organization. And poetry is about organization. Thank you dearest Emily for stopping by....dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Oh my, the flood, Noah, Mt. Ararat (I believe it was)
Fake news---all fake news.
There were no animals of each species, just an old man dying of covid, and the world around him shutting down, and his world shutting down.
And the arc containing 2 lies of each kind. Will there be room on that arc for politicians?
Maybe when a cow actually does jump over the moon.
Fascinating write with so many hardcore truths.
j.

[h d e rushin]

the new "Arc" the one determined by membership or wealth will be the savior of the species according to right wing leadership. To be allowed on the ship one must first believe that some animals are more important than others. Or since wealth looks so much like effort, only those who can run fast or climb high will have a seat. The rest of us will be doomed to covid or the fall. Thanks for your insight my friend....dana