Education II

Learn to silence yourself you young twit.

Quiet down till you hold the wisdom in your bones

Fused and tinged with spit. Bite into that right elbow for God’s sakes, just learn the wisdom that quiet does not forsake. Let the wealthy rail on in ignorance. It tends to young money and its seeming insulation. Hold the wisdom to your generation two down from your waist. Let blood sing and your life not be called a waist, but that too is a secret for another generation down with knowledge of hell not put to waist.

~W.H. Tespid ERT

Education

Sedition and the Wind

When the birds have gone

And the leaves mask the trees’ limbs

Sunlit gone until dawn

Think and speak of other years.

Domestics and familiars to each

Young and old ear.

Say not spot on of the bell,

Lest ye and I rest in hell.

~W.H.Tespid ERT

Poetry: As Requested, Flud

Flud
Charles Robert Darwin dreamed
On a boat designed like an ark.
Noach could not complain
Because it was not an art he had mastered,
So some have been told.
Or did he?
Boats on the oceans and seas of tranquilities
E’re to be opened for fear of some
Carbon-hybrid evolutionary disease
“Sleep, please sleep”, I hear Naamah cry
In the prow of the boat singing antelopes lullabyes.
The wife of Noach had more to do than cook and clean,
A sailor’s wife kept watch and helped the dove’s to preen.
Preparations of olives,
Oil, meat, seed,
Ranches and leaves
From living plants that boarded the ark
At the hands of many of these:
Twixt and Tween
Castor-Pollux pairs
Scylla and Carbidis
Siamese feral felines forgotten for foreign found
Cheng and Eng
Geminiflorus Brachiae
Thomas Didymus of James and brother one
Bobbsey and Bobbsey
Romulus and remus
One eye and one eye,
Which make a fraternal two
This list may go on but even
Temple scribes have reasons to put ink, well and papyrus down.

Just like the pain of lifting great burdens up a ramp
A tasking method that gave way to leading trained and domesticated
Animals and passages by a lead.
Slacking off,
Giving it some rope
Was not an option you see
For the dripping faucet that was the sky
Followed into a mo(o)nsoon as yo shall read.
Follow-up with a test of your own of lunar gravitational pulls, the
Oceans and the seas.

Drop, Drop
Drip, Drip
When the upper skies open up
It is accurate enough to place tears between your lips.
Drop, drop, drip, Der-ip, DRIP.
Crawling beads of brine
From tear ducts
To bridge
To bone
To corner of wides
falling in open mouth.
©N.A. Jones February 25, 2008 All Rights Reserved

Writing: Poetry as requested

Untitled/Unedited
Two steps away from Ann Arbor, Dad just keeps throwin’ bones. Squeels in the background have me wonderin’ if he’s lounging on the back porch nursin’ the spider plant with a dish soap cocktail laced with bubbles and ash. When he smokes it’s a rule of contemplation. When he smokes the wind of the lake coast coalesces on the eastside acting like storms just starting to catch. When he takes a drag, the billows eventually trail up but dissipate before rising over the cement lip above. Water, air, and ash; that is Dad, other than puppy dog tails and other nonesuch. Two steps away from Ann Arbor and I bury that bone for a trick out of a hat to amuse myself while herding rabbits. “I’m talking about The African American Expo,” he clarifies. It’s the big ta do where every brown man, woman, and child on the North American Continent can find something, if not themselves. This is where he says “but” and remembers the festival sets up near the only Greek bakery I know on the planet; a block or two from the people mover. Downtown Detroit? Really? Maybe? “At least it used to be”. Go sell there, he romances. You’ll fit right in. “Your creativity demands it,” he directs. It’s more than being an issue of familiarity. Me and my bone, a long way from home and I can’t chance it. Back under the tree for me. Still now the world seems better laced with a little hope and spoonful of promises.

©N.A. Jones September 2015 All Rights Reserved

For a Friend in Need: Futile Anger Laced with Sacrifices

Page: 13/11/02
Work Entry

Page: Torn and Ripped from the journal

Page: Untitled (Unedited)
I’ve resolved to die
A little death
Nothing so profound
Nor so descreet that
The eulogy will be briefer
Than the Gettysburg Address.
I feel ousted, ridiculed even though
My father says I lack the
Direction, nor reputation to do either
I’ve resolved to wait
Another hour, day, fortnight
Sleep the fake death
For but a turn of the earth on its axis
One round or two

Page: (Unedited)
Why do or is it self-hatred. Not comparable. Confused. This feeling saying I’ve got to be white and affluent/abundant or have some of that. What does it mean to be black and all of that same. NO drugs. Violence, veritably tapped anger, and social ugliness.
Does the word unrefined ring a bell. No need to feel is question what is outside. I’d hate it if they lied to me. Am I so socio-economically confused that I’d have to be white to make sense of it all. What does it mean to be black, female and able? Able to do what….work in your kitchen, take out your garbage.
Page: 12.2.04
Series Brainstorming and Studio Notes

©N.A. Jones 2015 All Rights Reserved

Poetry, as requested +

Krakonmu (unedited)

Watching my moon rise, Krakonmu
Moving across the sea, mark my passage to further shores.Hither to forward I circle thee.
Another dusk, twilight eyes, bashful winters out of autumn late;
violent mastering another season.
Cardinal reign between the souls of water sleeping bark and bitter frost.
Krakonmu watching my moon rise spiraling tundra through the air.
Rolls of grace, Sotatsu’s clouds, sweeping rolls of Buddha’s robes.
Buddha’s mist whispers of torrential rains.
Honpa shiki, krakonmu possessor of my kinsman’s soul.

Copyright N.A. Jones 1995

---

Untitled (unedited)

Out of Body
Out of night
Vacant bones
A series of frights
Tender of mind
Tender of heart
This absence of self
Is no place to start
Patience in turn
Prayer if answered
Let my living be thriving
And my life not be standard

Copyright N.A. Jones 1995

Untitled (unedited)

Crows bite at the heels of my elbows.
Maggots crowd at my toes
Breath, a gift at the other end
brandishing and discouraging foes.
Goats lick at my haunches.
Rain devours the poor.
Monsoons at my tear ducts
claiming abuse among tethered rows of eyelashes.

Power? What to do with it?
Has it a purpose? Truly I know
not what it is. Given to
sorrow my strengths laeyd in pity,
Ridicule and latent hints of forgiveness.

Copyright N.A. Jones 1995

Poetry and Cooking, as requested: Rough and unedited

Untitled/Unedited

If I plan to see tomorrow
Nothing would fail not these
Corn filled feet, blistered and impaired
Take a step with chicken drum legs
Pardon this bowleggedness
With bruises up and down the side
Not from labor digging in a garden not
From toil and cleanliness on stone tile floors
Just an inheritance of actions from close friends
Self mutilation;wrought by my hand
No more cigarette burns or pinching pliers make
Just old-fashioned punch and slap without the tickle I take
When anger besets me
And book knowledge fails the mark
Again with the pain and profusion of self hate
For lack of seeing a better way to conclude
To channel, to miss, to plow through the hurt, the cleaning
That only sage smudge
Lit cigarette on thick skin bring

Copyright NAJ (Niven Colette Constantine) 2009

---

Breakfast:

1. Oatmeal – Instant is good sometimes, but I prefer steel-cut oats that cook for about twenty minutes or more. The skill is in the doctoring with whole milk, sugar, raisin/dried cranberries, powdered cinnamon or ginger. Cook it till thick then cut with hot milk. Add the rest to taste. Oatmeal soothes the skin and the intellect. A bowl at night may calm your nerves and help you to sleep.
2. Corn fritters/Apple fritters with syrup – find a recipe a la Joy of Cooking or the internet. Sourdough apple fritters did not go over well in this house except with my taste buds. So it may be a preferred taste for an experienced palette.
3. Country fried potatoes with onion – This is a basic staple in the kitchen. I tend to play with ingredients and vary the seasonings with each batch, but the basic ingredient rest with cut potatoes and onions. Pair with eggs and/or your choice of breakfast meats such as sausage or bacon.
4. Fresh fruit, a slice of toast, a single serving of a breakfast meat, and tea – this keeps me happy when I buy breakfast meat and I am avoiding milk and milk products. It is simple and keeps me focus till a late lunch.
5. Huevos Rancheros – This is what I run into during the week after I make a pot of beans. Add one or two eggs over easy along with country fried potatoes or rice and I can skip the bacon, sausage, or steak for a special occasion. Don’t forget the tortillas and salsa for a heavier meal.
6. Eggs – 1) A 10 minute boil, then remove the shell before you quarter it. wrap the quarters with pepperoni and try not to stuff yourself. 2) Scrambled eggs lightly coated with hot pepper oil or garlic chili oil. Serve with a piece of buttered toast. 3) Omelets – fill with whatever cheese and/or vegetable you have in the refrigerator. Remember to cook out the water from the prepared vegetable other wise it will collect over the eggs as the are close to set, thus extending cooking time. When I use spinach and feta, I place the feta in first, then chop the spinach fine and add it atop just before the egg needs to be removed from the pan. Note: I tend not to eat many eggs. Once a week, two eggs max. I’m looking into switching to egg beaters, but I love baking so much I tend to combine what I need and by one carton of eggs a month instead of buying both. Factor in your cholesterol needs with anything else I’ve mentioned to make a wise decision for yourself.
7. Pancakes – Mostly in the autumn and winter I will break open the cookbook and find an old recipe or two. Around Christmas Day we somehow always have several bananas going bad. As it seems an annual occurrence and I’ve made banana pancakes for two years in a row. Last year I came up with a mix and if I do say so myself, I’m looking forward to a batch next month.

I may have a note more or two in a few days. Please bear with while I brainstorm.

~Pastied Pastry Cook

Poetry: As Requested

Don’t forgive me for my passions. For now, just shut up and read. ~NCC

---

Untitled

Red rock river communes its rounds in breastliness.
How hard is it to curve your blood rivulet rapids?
Considering carrier pigeons to thee from her hop
‘scending the bluegrass to the
feathered branch a horses height above
in the red-tipped bushed branches next to
a cotton mouth dove.
Keening, keening, keening between
easing out between the tip of
a forked tongue and tangerine beaked lips.
Keening, keening, keening
coocoo coocoo coocoo.
Whether I am my bird’s keeper
I do not care to know, just yet.
Keening, keening calue, qilue, cahlue, klue, kah lue.
The Prussian blue tears rolling
off your uniform seem to know
me better from then and not
before 1942– The confusion
of human doings in my mind now.
Maybe I should stay content to
lay with the cows and count thrushes
mandating the trees.

Copyright NAJ (Niven Colette Constantine) May 17, 2009 A.D.

Little Black and Lonely

Little black and lonely
How ever shall you cope?
Feeble sex weaned dry.
I can always say no and do.
Once sinful with the self,
Now solace to do without.

Little black and lonely
How ever shall you cope?
Momma still lov me
Through grit and stale bread
Momma still lov me
Through hail and rancid winter
Momma still love me
In summer, spring, and fall
Even balancing this feebleness in my head
Momma still lov me

Even now my man lov me
High britches, wing-tipped God
Through my mood, evangelizing heaven
Wallowing in hell
Stuffing the feelings with good tastin’ food

Extra ham hocks
On these loins
Enough to make a gumming man cry
Extra meat, tender
Sweetbreads nestled right
Between the bone

Copyright NAJ(Niven Colette Constantine) July 2009

Untitled

my back, my lower black
this woman’s odor
no doubt the depths of smell
of fish canaries…sardine oil embedded in the skin
my back its lower realms breaks and the sight of that peach
Peach I remember the time of that lesbian reciting her poetry.
That statement of euphemistic peaches being the only reason for fishing
Down there.
The peaches mottled hairy side, its almost any budding beauty downside. Never mind my womb it’s the juice that runneth sap that runs through the piping
It’s the ache that shoots like lightening from bladder to nut.
It’s the gaping black hole without convection/gravity/loss of sight to pull that peach into my jolly old flippant ideations of fornication.
Then we come to the center of it all , that euphemistic peach its seed in amber coating.

Would that you could know
How things are kept I this body
How things are hidden in this body
Would that the fruit of this nectar
Be kept in fresh conditions albeit isn’t all in what you eat?

Copyright NAJ (Niven Colette Constantine) 2009

Writing: As Requested

Love’s Last Pages

Terminal now, moving on from year thirty-seven.
I promised you before the altar that in my love I would not falter
Please be patient and give me time.
Give me time, for my steps have grown shorter and I have grown weary.
My reach has come shorter too.
So wait a while longer before you cry over me and the years gone by too.
No son and my breast milk gave yield to none ere you.
My finger tips combed the scalp through of no one but you.
My gait taught to lengthen and stretch trying to meet peaks at your height and breath.
Still these days my hands have grown smaller.
My breath takes a little longer to come through.
My reach matches in steps as I inch closer to you.
Though this is my reward to stand at heaven’s door,
I wonder where it was I forgot
the promise I made not to leave
has brought me even here distraught.
So I try not to notice that the altar before is more rugged and sturdy than whence I’ve prayed.
Close to you, I am, when I tend to waken from these fears
which have brought tears more often than naught.
Despite these days that have shortened my gait,
My right hand trembles longer when I grasp it into yours.
Kisses, now, more drool ridden in pools of self-reflection
And I have grown to be time’s love lorn fool.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

---

Take out on Eighth and Wabash
Love is waiting till
the other shows up and
Still refuses kisses
On the hand,
On the forehead
Or the mouth.
Like a type of virginity that
Must last the century’s end.
I grieve for that occasion of loss.
Assuredly the stars sign that it will not be my triumph of love over shrewdness.
Shrewdness never bought me sex by any means.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

Writing: As Requested

Street Pharmacist on Feather Oak Trail
Tell me man! Tell me to rights.
Seriously though, how long is this high suppose to last?
I paid you plenty to see the face of God.
My chin hair ‘s stiff and my shoes rough shod.
I ain’t pretty and orderly now,
but somethin’ about my maker
I’s got to see about and how.

Getting’ dere dis way, if I miss dis train,
When and where is the next?
I’s confused my eyes suppose ta droop like dis?
My limbs too weak , too tired to rest?
Tell me man and tell me quick,
To see my lord, why I gots ta wait for some crack whore to suck my tits?
Dry I tell ya, arid like smoke.
I wanted a pill for this journey,
not a paper wound reed to toke.

Somewhere in these walls,
People gotta be crowded in bathroom stalls.
As it is all to delicate and sharp to take.
Wise woulda told me what path to make to
Sophia in her water logged breath
In this smoke, I’m libel to suffocate to death.

Tell me man. Tell me fast,
How long this high supposed to last?
I came up these stairs half past nine.
These same people so don’t tell
me you screwed with time.
Now I’m more aware than sunlight’s gaze.
I’m beggin’ you heaven afore
to loose me outta this cardboard and tin foil maze.

They say you the doc, you the cure,
You the preacher, and close to the all wise.
So take me up the back way through Jacob’s ladder and his heirs
Show me at least the right hand of saving grace and a jury of my peers.
I need to know to calm the screamin’ from all these fears.
Little black and lonely holding a bucket full of quarters
Drownin’ over briny tears.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

>12<
This is what I should have told you;“I cannot give you my virginity. It is wrapped up in a blanket somewhere in West Dallas wedged in the corner by some shop keeper’s back door.” By now the blood has dried. By now the flies have flown over the waste bin behind William’s Chicken and by the way, I am not truly sorry, ‘cept to tell that you are too late to make a decision and I far too tired to entertain.

What I should have said before he made himself comfortable in my bed; is that one day I aspire to live clean like a Catholic. I’ll not have to bide time with magazines and wanton pages, waiting for a knock at the door. I will have work, I hope of my own. For now I am frustrated at the lines you lay at my bedstead and the remained of today cannot possibly keep me as a woman and attentive like Holy Thursday. What comes by my mind for the third and fourth time is that I am not ready to take on this attachment as a burden. All this I say with a professional air thinking the posturing will lend me respect. You’ll have to drop by at a later date when you are ready to make a commitment to me and my errant thoughts.

What I should have said before slipping out of bed and barricading myself in the bathroom; These illicit meetings I am sure have brought me to another door where trembling and brine begin after gazing so sublime into mirrored panels. I have not given in to a scene I play to the point of losing face and soul. Still on the way to the seat I cannot find calm replete with stillness as three a.m. marches in.

I must learn to excuse myself.
I must learn to recuse myself.
I must learn to keep my trap shut or run.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

Writing: As Requested

>9<
“I don’t hear you”!
I no longer fear you anymore.
Once I refused to deride you,
now, not even bare nakedness can hide you.
For that I steered clear of tides and tears
supported by my childhood fears
that you nurtured past puberty’s years and into adulthood.

Year’s past I braced myself every morn
with your talk, fruitless wisdom and
aimless insults. I thought “to armor” with every drop of unflinching pride
Now, a war to give more reason to faithful observance of your walk with the dead.
I never quoted you as wrong and became wet, damp and diseased for not questioning.
The passions you paced out almost in time for every metronome click spoken for me to share.
Hidden in my core an ember to blaze,
this fire that made
you bend up and see the skies for once.

The crick in your lower lumbar
Never let you see the sun
In the aftermath of late noon
I never understood that I failed
day after day until my pain was public.
My blouse now ripped and head doused in ashes.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

>11<
On the eve of the fall even rarefied air catches thin wisps of fiberglass gone grey in motion. It’s not so fast you can’t see the delicately placed décolletage lumbering about corners bracing for impact. Even my face hides from the slow embarrassment of being revealed. Is it a foregone conclusion that intentional footfall breaks into a quick paced toe two-step. Careful don’t drop the bowl of cherries.

On the eve of the fall, I feel nothing for weeks ney months. I’ve been warned; preparations in tiny rolled pieces of yellow note paper. I am seeing only a small part of reality; eyes shaded by ghosts and expectations only a parent could imprint. It was dark before now and only just today, the afternoon light went dim. Before moon set, maybe I will see the room I am in and dress in nothing, but failed glory. “Go to Christ,” the voice whispers,” you’ll retrieve your sight as it should have been.”

On the eve of the fall, I’m wondering what to prepare and how. I’m closing my mouth as gnats fall into crevices under the tongue; still they wonder where to go and how. I am walking the sliver between home and homeless wondering if a side bag and extra pair of sock is enough. Tennis shoes or cowboy boots? I never seem to be ready for rattlers whether in or out of the bedroom.

I have not built my home upon sand, but
I have looked directly into the mantle of the Sun and gone blind.
I have dwelt in houses, never laying this head in a bed in a building called home.
On the eve of the fall, I can call no direction, nor summons.
I’m bent to watch it all in its own time.
My year will wait.

Copyright Niven Colette Constantine August 2015 All Rights Reserved

Writing: As Requested (Working Copy)

Goosedown Feather
I.
Bring me a goose down feather from the bed
Where my lover lays his head.
Bring it quick!
Bring it fast!
Afore this luck no longer last!

For I am a dark born one,
neither teetered nor tethered beneath the sun.
The power he has o’er my heart
enough make cinders a joyous flame to start

Pluck it from where he lays his feet,
a beginning this love must be replete.
With a passion laid low, reclined so far,
the distance is short between hearth and the evening stars.
For his love not to bear my tongue,
I forbid any other, this has to be the one.

Do it before his love arise.
Pluck it afore dawn’s robin blue skies.
Do it as if you didn’t care.
Do it toe to toe as ifyou were standing there.

II.
Bring me a goose down feather from the bed
where my lover lays his head.
Call closer and remember this:
Bring it afore the crescent moon cornered high.
Bring it afore I can tell the first black lie
of my love poured out on heaven’s floor
Dare I say that I want more, more, more, more!

For I am a dark born one
Neither harbored nor harnessed by love’s son
The loneliness that pains through joy luck’s gate
has me wanton of love more this late.

Pluck it from where his hips lay high
Pluck two for the day I will cry and die.
Loose the strength of feathers ‘bued with lust’s height
(Trust me, I need it tonight)
Bring it with the haste of the heat of the sun
Let me see it before I’ve been burned and undone.

Do it before his love arise.
Pluck it afore dawn’s robin blue skies.
Do it as if you didn’t care.
Do it to my face as if you were standing there.

III.
Bring me a goose down feather from the bed
where my lover lays his head.
Bring it afore the owl cries nigh
Bring it afore fumes of nightshade gather by and by.
Bring it before I cry.

For I ‘m a dark born one,
neither teetered nor tethered beneath the sun.
The grays of my ways give sway to pitch burnt bone black
This I take will not be given back.

Pluck the down from around his heart
This is where it should all start
Wait, the wax stag he is; he’d never stable here
My heart’s brazen conceit, hooved, never cloven,
never more to go rovin’ in pastures where I should not feast.
I’ll intone a sweet pea to catch his faint calm beat.
Rhythms to mind soothing balm for blooded feet.

Do it before his love arises
Pluck it afore dawn’s blue skies
Do it as if you didn’t care
Do it to my face as if you were standing there.

IV.
Bring me a goose down feather
From the bed where my lover lays is head
Bring it my friend
Bring it before my passions die and fear visits again
Once away
Him always to stay.

For I am a dark torn one
Neither teetered nor tethered underneath the sun
For the grays of my ways give sway
To pitch burnt bone black
This I take will not be given back
Deny me not!
Between us arms and souls soon to lock step.

Pluck it from beneath his tongue
Do it soon for
my desire is old and lingering
I do not bait and wait beneath the sun.
A drop or two of his sacred dew and I
Won’t go blind from lying to you.
His sweet words to my ear from water so dear
will cycle about to reflect my fears
For your sake please
Do not quibble or get hung in the process
Instead leave.
More is waylaid to less

Do it before his love arises
Pluck it afore dawn’s blue skies
Do it as if you didn’t care
Do it as if to my toes you were standing there

V.
Will you please?
Bring me a goose down feather from the bed
where my lover lays his head.
Bring it in silence.
Bring it this way once.
Bring me the angel from the guardian tree
Who saw us together languishing peacefully.

Pluck it from the top of his head:
The tuft, the down, all the delicate feathers ‘round
The crown of his head.
Then we can put these longings to bed.

Wet with tears with still more work to do.
If you were in love I do it for you.
Wise woman’s tears wrench me away
For blood ties will no longer stay.
And you too will soon go away
For now I’ll have him
Till another comes and this pleas start over again.

For I am a dark torn love
Neither teeter nor tethered under no sun
The grays of my ways give sway to pitch burnt bone black
This I take will not be given back.

Writing: As Requested…

Unto the First Death Before Christ

I.

Cracked, possessed, racked with grief
I kneeled beside the porcelain tub
sensitive but no one to meet,
‘cept to look at myself
submerged in waters deep.

Every sliver of paper that made me who I am,
was, ever fantasized, and recollections fail me now.
Acid on white scripted from playmates older now.
A faint grey likened to my countenance brave then and how
then I had no shame,
then I need not shave.
For It was the age before turning and eyes searing the layered greens of jade.
Since then I took more umbrage to memories failure and I sought the shades.

Moments before I came to my watery grave
The flames cindered low in the basin as
I gave up every reminder that crippled my waist and hands.
Then a eulogy, I prayed to release
burdened baggage that long crippled hands, mind and waist.
Lost in words and pictures wrested from my eyes in former eons,
I begged to be crowned king of the mound in green spring ‘ere’ gone.
I wept for a childhood not just revisited but also repossessed.
I gave no thought to any accomplishment done best.
I wanted my freedom returned as the papers, photos and books burned.

Down the hole,
Trace no tear,
Down the hole,
I no longer live here.
My hands and heart can’t bear the brine.
No more tears for my childhood this time.
Down the hole,
I want welcome go,
Down the hole,
No one has to know.
II.
As it could,
As it were,
Three days later I mourned for the passing of her.
I swear I saw her soul
slip from hands and down the bathtub drain hole.
Three days gone and my hands are weak and limp.
Now it does not seem such a wise decision.
I wept.
I cried for more than a fortnight
and with every countenance of the sun becoming bleary eyed.
I committed paginated lyrical suicide and my soul went ahead with no guide.
Soon I split in two and fractured more.
Then hope arrived some four month’s later at another door.
Outside us in the sun, one bird walked away from the flock —
a recognition — it looked me in the face and did not break its gaze.
As if I had returned from a watery grave, learned to fly, and burdened joyously to sing.
Winged it was and gave me grace, kindness, and inner peace.
My soul visited me as winged consciousness.
The images may never cease.

– Copyright Niven Colette Constantine

Writing

Been editing for three days and I have still yet to make a complete cycle through what I’ve written and unearthed once sandwiched in binders and stained with butter. I felt like taking a chance so I’ll share something that is waiting for a second, maybe third pass. May I never dowse the flames. May I continue to temper it raw. May the edge always be rough and cut in both directions. Enjoy.

Carol Ann’s Business Plan

I know this place
I’ve been here before
Rites about now I start beating my head in
Screaming, “You masturbating whore”.
Hands touch tile,
Maybe I’ll sleep a while longer.

I drank too much late Wednesday morn.
Licked coca-cola till bright gave way to night
Waited for cock to leave before moon rise height.
When nightingales rest I’ll turn on the light.

I’s got a reputation you see,
For lookin out the window
Draped in nothing but skin,
While the audience paces closer to the boxwood bushes below
Tempting further sin.
So, what is the obvious?
You know where I begin.

Left hand on hip
Cigarette in the right
As the ashes turn I
Make pretend with myself
Throughout the night.

Come first light,
Over Michael’s back gate,
I try to maintain composure
With faces plastered to glass.
Thursday’s first hint of light, I went up my ass
Leaving stewed mess on the floor.

At noon I can’t speak to my man cock soon enough.
I’ll take it on the chin tonight and cry on his tomato sauce splattered French cuffs.
Two dollars, a coupon, and an Obama 2008 election lapel pin.
Who do I begin to know?
Where is more important than when.

Confronted on the corner after three cups coca-cola on ice:
I married your father last night,
Too bad he forgot the ring.
Hand on hips and a black plastic round jiggles on the index finger; melody rings in my ears.
Cold cement room waitin’ for me
I’ll be silenced without an aria to sing.

~NCC

Writing: As requested

Caveats: #1 Thank you dear anonymous+ for the encouragement. These never would have seen the light of day till I got back to a project over 15 years old (i.e. Never.) #2 You find in portion of the writing, a woman is the focus. In no way interpret this as lesbianism. After a series of classes in college and reading elsewhere I became fascinated with the ancient practice of Courtly Love. (I still do not have a solid hold on it) In any case I wrote from the viewpoint of a knight before he left for the battle fronts during a Crusade. His confusion to bear children by love or staying true to his love and obligations to Christ are a internal war I explore in other writings as well. Meanwhile several bodiless characters develop that need to be fleshed out for later. Meanwhile I feel like O’Keefe battling Stiegliz over his interpretation of her flowers as overtly sexual. For sure, all art is not all pornography. Lastly, I’ve got several more editing passes to make till I’m through. I prefer to wait till the last to post again. Ah, Yes! All hail the process.

#1

My blessed blessed,
Come to me tonight
with larkspur trailing in your hair
and the song that dwells in the caverns of your anchored breast.
Let us reap the pleasures of
conversation, glimpse the wan flesh of
an earlobe, and the drawn line circling your wrist.

#2

Of the speech on my lips
is the prayer of anger gone?
Voices bellow in low toned melody from minarets
That seems laden with sand and silt from the rivers
and dungeon pits across the Southern banks.

#3

I repent for days of joy.
I repent for the eye that is fooled.
I repent for respect falsely contributed.
I bow to that which is greater.
I forsake that which grieves.
I pass on so that none may forget.
I live so that our days may be done.
#4

Even if he hates, forsakes, and does not live
in grace,
you must take up for him.
Even as the gods finally forsake him, as they
leaven anger, spite, and drool committing to their own devices.
Cursed be flesh upon flesh upon lie upon depressed mind.
Even then you must aid and forgive him.

#5

Let my shadow follow you son till the journey night breaks.
Let nothing foul,
Let no carrion fall in our wake
Let my shadow fall upon you son
And let no buzzard mistake you for slake.

#6

We implore the great god of mysteries
Who is a wellspring font buried below water rock hewn pools and slate.
We beseech this one wish:
That we may enter the hearts of men
To find those challenged at heart
and striving in weakness to blood, bone, and temple honed,
Searching for kindness
in raw form, cherishing all divine and pleasing to your senses.
Let us find in these hearts of men, women, child, and being;
Honor, faith, and courage imbedded in and of the flesh.

#7

Considering the life of a flasher: one must question his motivation. One must try to see his point of view. For if there is that much eroticism in the world, shouldn’t we all take part?

#8

At night the drum beat low and the only other man slept in shifts. Then Bartholomew would prattle on about the beauty of Africa, the women, the lush greenery, and the lands

#9

Open’s a house
Two’s a mouse
Three’s a “How do you do?”
4s a mole
5 ever more
when owned what do you do?

One’s a house
Twos a mouse
3s a “how do you do?”
5s heaven then
6 Please and thank you

1s a house
2s a mouse
3s heaven sent
If we go to Devonshire all our money’s spent,
Rolling on the ground, making angels as we go.
Getting crazy stares from traveller’s shouting,
“You’re supposed to do that in snow!”

#10

pure and driven clean people
having no idea of fiendish deeds
introducing ideas that “make them go bad”.
Makes me consider what would cause a man to go mad?

Clean cloth and pepper
What’d you do to depress’er
White sheet and braun
What ever do go wrong
How did she think life would start
With still born hand and defeated heart?

#11

My blessed blessed,
May you only see me
By moonlight gaze eened out between
Mist and fog on low land
Next to soft petalled peonies
And bruised lemon grass

My blessed blessed come to me
Under rows of jasmine
And
You
Aromatic of almond oiled skin
Let my eyes fall upon your bare brow
Following the curve
Of your nose down to those lips
And let me think
Once.
Twice.
Thrice reconsider but not pursue.
Still not stare, for even
In those thoughts
I bring disgrace upon both our souls
For that kiss without touch ever leads the
Most holy astray into follies
Of carnal flesh.

What my blessed
Can I endure?
This passage of rights.
This new movement.
It takes all of me
and includes my love for you.
Shall I be found for you, my dearest and only?
We shall

Nothing so great, so fine, couyld get a woman pregnant.

#12

So few find in this mortal coil
A want to forgive and smile
And fine in ways to have more than happiness
And more than you

#13
Belief is what we call a temporary state of suppression of childhood
Once that is reached then and only then can the converted become the believer then a true believer, then a doer then one who knows only then the known becomes the dutiful

#14
How can I honestly say she likes me?
How often have you had sex, she asked.
By the intent in your eye, not enough.

#15
Jungar brought arms.
We weren’t sure we’d need them, but we became more convinced as he told us about the pirates
Three by sea and one besides me.
Three in a raft: one by stern,
Two in the galley, and one by the rudder.
Three by sea and one besides me.
We set sail under a burgeoning wind.
North by northwest a gale burdoned
with salt water. We were born by fresh water lakes,
sailed by gentle winds, and travailed by broad banded storms
We in search of taller trees, canopies,
higher cloud covered skies,
sharper mountain tops,
whiter cloud peaks,
sculpted water ridden vallies,
deeper reflective lakes,
and billowing bushes with shifting reaches.

So we emplore thee
old Gods of the Mye!

There is magic when the stars
show and tell you how to sail away
and home again.
Sailors have always known where
The Pleadis sleep and what the
Western Nebulae claws at.

#16

Albigensian Creed

Tout votre sanc de3vez espandre
Pour la sainte Englise defender
– Lordere de Chevalerie

Wandering naked in the cold
I too wonder what to seek to keep chattering bones warm.
Fear of God?
Love of Christ?
Great Mother Mary save me from displeasure to thee
“Thou shalt believe all that the church teaches and shall obey all her commandments”

I’ve come half a world
Only to find love resides in the breast of a Moor.
Dare I ask what hides behind silk covered tresses?
I seek to war
with Moorish Kingdoms,
yet I find only peace and understanding.
I am a knight, young, virile, yet, eeking out progress
to the flesh.

“Never think of serving God, never tell the truth. If you meet with and honest man, dishounor him. Burn down town, village, houses, over thrown altar and break crucifixes”
-Amis et Amiles, Hadre

“It appears to be simple, but it is not. How often do you get the chance to do something about it.”
“Nothing came of it,” said Lucius, “nothing good at all. Still we made the trek. Pilgrimmage is what you will to her door.”
Laughing and talking all the way wondering if this High Muck-Muck was real. “Neither sweat, nor stain, nor belches shall keep us from appointed round. Shall we bring cakes of other offerings from the sea? Land? Air? Shall we sing praises of God, Goddess, or Demi-urges long gone past their prime? Shall we adorn her with flowers? All I can think about is after that weary journey to her door, some hospitality will be had by us and all. I hope.”
“Way out. Way out past the forest, grasslands, and desert is the woman I see myself by drawing.”
#17
If we speak of shoes and ship and sealing wax
Will pigs not follow?
If we speak of each other
Fecund , sweat drenched, and taled of woe,
Shall we arise only succumbed
By summer’s heat and humidity?

Summer hierarchies
Give sway to banners and manners;
All made of cotton and silk.
For they are
Lightweight and easy to disrobe.

Whispered:
If I took you to my bed…
What would happen?
Blushed:
Nothing.

Toungues langoured by the sunshine
Shall only speak of watery ways
The curve of the head and the lithe of a creek ever flowering between
and the eyes will cry salt over the
sight of fresh streams.
#18
Courtly Love

A fancy in many a tale
A truth but drops from my lips
Only to touch the ground longing to fly into the hand of my lover
Piqued and wan that less in gender
and so low may I be when away
from my blessed blessed.
Her hair, her hands, her breadth, her presence
Give me strength in all of these endeavors
to proceed into other arrays.

What more can I write?
My love for her grows with every passing minute.
Day, full;
Moon, night.
Abundance overflows in pleasure with one kiss to the hand, a
most gratuitous and flattering act of desperation.

Carth cart knew the rule of love was only a fancy.
War was reality.
Nothing but god in the heart.
Nothing but soul to give.
Beyond god?
Beyond all hope of recognition, courtly love could bring a kinght’s soul to blossom
A gracious and beautiful young woman who’s been taught how to gird a young man’s inclinations to the point that it competes with god for a seat at his heart.

They assume what I want is not nobility born of a clear mind.
They assume what I seek is petty and frivolous.
They forget the emotional pain and simplicity of desire,
born of fear,
fear of being left,
fear of my own people,
fear of being homeless,
fear of starving,
and a gentle fear of what I will become.
Lest no thought strives for something beyond an impression of guilt;
Or being racked with determination to fulfill some deep seeded need for feeling wanted by a woman.
#A
In pursuit of perfection,
In my lover’s eyes,
May I bribe, beat, and strain,
To that pinnacle and be the only one
basking in that delight.

#B
Where do I find you?
Me, ethereal; you, concrete.
My feeling surges at the breast.
No comfort for the weary at heart.
Shocked like deer in mid pose before the hunter takes aim with twine, birch and feather;
only to pass.
Why, oh why, may I only be Trioluous?
Forlorn and lost to another caress of your hands,
your arms,
your breast.

#C
How do I find thee?
Awaiting! Thou fornicator of men!
How do I find thee?
Thy upshod of dirt and suet made shit!
How do I find thee?
My rough lover in between the hollyhocks?
Girded, weighted, and torn between a
love I would never find otherwise.
My hopes and dreams of a courtly maid
made faint by the closeness of a tavern wench.

#D
Passages of sleep pass before my eyes
Deep and resounding, plentiful but evasive.

Wicked ways of farce we wrought.
Beyond this and out control of
Wicked thought
this we cry
Out of these which endeavors in which we lie.

#E
Oh Whoa! I ponder my contribution in life
Oh Lo! I have pondered my position in life
Yes again, significant I have wrought yet forgetful of all.
Moon is bright;
Day turn night;
Quenching the thirst for day.
Sun at falter,
Nights getting longer and the air has passed out of the sky.
Moon is bright; day turn night,
Old thoughts fading at the sight of stars.
Morning getting colder,
Anger’s getting older and he says it time to move on
Sun is bright, night turn day
Onward into afternoon
Quenching thirst from parched night cause of
Dusk to dawn is sweat.
Purge my belly’s fire gone wan.
Moon turns pale iris blue;
While sun blooms forth into daze.
Calm and bright
Day turn night
Onward to midnight
Quenching thirst from day
Stars turn to tea light flames
While moon turns away from blazing hearth fires.

#E
Let me turn to that which leaves by the moon.

Give me freedom to be light
When soul weighs down
Its burden
Last let that which needs to leave, go.
Lastly set my sorrows afloat,
To be dawn’s light sail in over the ocean’s edge.
Long enough to heal from a scar
Short enough that it not mar or marks.

#F

Being this brown sets me off as being recognized as white;
though I would be called such by my mannerisms
and speech by an ignorant hoard.
Being this brown sets me apart from being recognized as being just black;
though I would be called such by my mannerisms
and skin color by an ignorant hoard.
Being this brown sets me apart from an ignorant hoard.

Copyright N.C. Constantine 2015 All Rights Reserved