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Two Poems
John Anton Malinowski
He’s No Dummy

Welcome to America boy
with cocaine flooding your facial gas trap
and Mother
and Christ
compound your tongue
weak in Mexico
vague strength found
journey bowels tossed tourist jungles
is it just a propped stage?
Throwing up
and sleeping
and tequila
Buddah’s qualms extend twenty five hundred questions
-year of relevancy
to the boy’s mind caked
in cocaine
and Christ
and mutating invisible insects.

What a week in Mexico
-tomorrow the boy will
teach French children how to behave
in the kingdom of being
in the shade of old factorial congestion
        “It is dangerous here.
         Look at all these kids.
         Some could get killed.
         I almost did, twice.”

And a time,
though brief,
extends the far reaches-----
black water awakens
guts -keep meat suspended
in the hunger for animation-

   no betrayal. no doubt.

   no reservations in expression.

fully

attached to the love of being

the boy with the inner Christ
-surround the womb of our Mother
in cocaine anchored brains
welcoming America
into his living room.


*

In Dream to Wake to the Face of You

these words are a display of what i know
not-

some partial figure born dead

in a perverted nature rich

in compelling incommunicable feelings

into typical pageants of concrete hiccups.
no! spellings are alive!

no death dealing blade floating between
hinged teeth can take life from its self,

it becomes anew,

to experience some thing new it must die

to feel new with out already knowing

how it will never be new,

not trapped in a repetitious shadow
flicking at its senile serenity

remembering our orchard youth

emerge

a mysterious milieu

a cloaked hand that bares the door between
these lips.

come in they say,

inherit this environment

action obliged to forget the paralysis that blooms from sympathy

and clearly consider

how every thing obscure blossoms
standard, where searching for the impossible
is only relevant

by way of the pointless

and the tragedy keeps gods drunk

on vanity

and the usefulness of propelling

a time of no one

deep in to the eyes of another.

evaporate empires of habit

while the great garden of mechanical lies
attempts to relay reality

but charm none       all wither             return
urging silence to dream

i am the only one who can ever be who i am
not-

i am no thing but a portion of what it is,
paying tribute to a physical dream placing
the present as ancient,

antique genesis matter passes cells

now birth now fall now collect together

in the sensational slight

on the untamable subtle,

a connection unfit

for becoming’s procession.

it’s not looking at what one wants to see,

it’s seeing what it may be -

which can be an erotic affair

of confusion and fear and unexplainable
ecstasy,

being naked of a self to hold on to.

in dream to wake to the face of you.



11:50:37
Monday Nov 5 2018