Gizooglin Mumblin Jack

In lieu of another freshly smoked up poem todizzle, I gizoogled some dat have already rocked up here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin’ thru fo’sho. Da titlez link ta tha originals.


Da May Moon Swells

May—the moon swells
against tha tight fabric
of sky like a funky-ass belly up in jeans,


And of course I couldn’t resist also tryin tha pregnant moon image as a tanka.

Da May Moon Swells #2

Look at dat May moon
as it swells up in tha evening
sky—as her belly
once fuckin started ta strain against
the waistz of most straight-up bangin jeans.


Under tha Sweet Linden Tree

Well, you sit under
the poplar n’ I under
the dope linden tree
while a gull foldz up white wings,
falls ta tha blue evenin sea.

Da gulls called lonely
all dizzle as we’ll call lonely
all night while tha white
moon rises, pulls at our eyes,
falls tha fuck into wells brimmed wit light.

Wait n’ I’ll brang you
the linden blossoms, brang you
their dew-rich demise—
a dope, musk-beaded fragrance;
it falls from tha moon’s pale fat-ass thighs.


After tha Moon Comes Up

I thought ta pick
the flower of forgetting
for mah dirty ass,
but I found it
already growin up in his thugged-out ass.

Ono no Komachi, from Da Ink Dark Moon translations by Jane Hirshfield n’ Mariko Aratani

With tha summer window wide open,
the def night air seeps over our toes.

All our asses dudes on’t rise, not even fo’ water, after
the moon comes up. We lie here, gleaming.

Tomorrow yo’ homeboy returns ta yo’ bed
and I return ta mine ridin’ solo. Yo ass is ghon be warm.

Will there still be dis pale bloom of pink over
your white clavicle arc when I chill at home?

I hear there’s a gangbangin’ flower of forgetting; maybe we’ll
find tha seedz among dis white scatter of stars.


Long Dark Strandz of Cedar (poem freestyled fo’ Ash Dunsford up in payment fo’ a toque knitted, n’ afta muthafuckin yearz of missin tha Rockies n’ tha Pacific Northwest Coast)

If you be thinkin of dis earth
as biatch you must imagine
the long line of tha Rockies
as vertebrae of her spine
arched ta receive
the wet lick of clouds

while da hoe bendz n’ shakes
out her long dark strandz of cedar,
spruce, n’ fir ta tumble down
the Coast Mountains n’ trail into
the chronic Pacific,
you must imagine driftwood

as her split endz bleached
by salt n’ sun n’ tossed
in they damp tanglez ta dry
on her sandy shoulders
heavin wit tha last
tremorz of a April storm

while tha gulls n’ crows
descend ta comb n’ consider
the feathers they’ll pluck
from wings, braid wit shells
into necklaces
for her many-rivered throat.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Art is theft, Gizoogle, John MacKenzie, Language, Poem tweets, Poetics, Poetry, Recent poems and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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