Stress

love and kindness
love and kindness
the divinity in all
positively positive
positive and kind
love and kindness
hapless divinity

Unsaturated

Let’s face it.
I am black and white.
I am tones and tints.
Unsaturated, impure.
Red and yellow demand to be here,
but I am not not inspired.
My world is dark, melancholy.
I seem to like it.

My Mountain Road

 Golden– hair, skin, sky.

Crisp morning dew blankets the ground

While smokey fog lingers on mountain tops.

The sweet smell of fresh-cut hay arouses hunger,

And the buzzing, chirping, and thumping awake all from slumber.

Old ladies in sun hats tend to gardens, fending off birds from the blueberry bushes.

Cows jump into unripened apple trees, and I mosey along–

Coffee in hand– reveling in Appalachia:

Tommy Toes, slap-footing, mountain music, hollows, farmers’ markets, summer’s harvest, waterfalls and rivers.

You ripen like a Cherokee Purple with such stimulation.

Our Identity

We are the masses.

We are here.

We are together.

We are human.

We are intelligent.

We are beautiful.

We are fun.

We are happy.

We are rich.

We are students.

We are small.

We are blue.

We are black.

Somos amigos.

We are the masses.

We scrutinize– each other.

We look.

We dare.

We talk — a lot.

We walk.

We ride.

We drive.

We eat.

We preach.

We love.

We love.

We are the masses–

Or so we thought.

Shouldn’t have looked.

3am
Their asleep.
Heaving, dry—
Nothing there, fatty.
Try again.
Surrender—squeak of the door.
Peek from the dark (too much coffee).
She glances in the mirror.
Vanities, art school, reality and disorders—
Eating disorders.

Individuation by Avah Pevlor Johnson

If I must be wrung through the paradox,
—broken into wholeness,
wring me around the moon;
pelt me with particles from the dark side.
Fling me into space;
hide me in a black hole.
Let me dance with devils on dead stars.
Let my scars leave brilliant traces,
for my highborn soul seeks its hell—
in high places.

¿Qué posición? (old one, lost in previous entries)

Since I’ve birthed this illusion,

There’s this erroneous conclusion.

Since I’ve soiled and masked my mien,

Your epithet has become fiend.

Here’s what my guise hides:

Soy los alimentos y los raices of a premature seed

Yearning to be kindled by a sunbeam.

But, the Oleander chants in a lethal voice

That forbids me to do more than own a paramour. I

t tells me a history.

You’ve heard it too.

Women are in the missionary position of society.

 I slit the throat of that idea with my style and stamen

I reap vengeance on that idea by imbibing that fear;

And yet, the rain has struck me.

Sloshing away are the dirtied advices that sprouted from the petals of my mother,

Dear Oleander.

Junkyard

One sharp malignant light

Pierces the dark on a frozen hilltop,

Silhouetting the deformed beings,

Inexplicit and black,

Disguising their bitter curves,

Their spiny, serrated edges

Chipping in the mouth of the illuminated ether.

They seek rebirth.

To write we forgot.

What,

What happened?

Change, it has, we’ll agree,

Soaked into all my threads,

Threads that twist and tear,

Reorganize,

Reattach,

Leaving uncertainty where certainty was taken for granted—

Like the curling lips of a stranger—

Leaving images where words, “spiny or smooth,”

Painted stories and sounded “noise and bramble, thorn and din.”

But the change,

The change is making me tell not show, not show,

how show, show this.

Ian francis