Two Poems
John Anton Malinowski
Summer 2019
John Anton Malinowski
Summer 2019
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.
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.