A mind filled by the heart sees a world full of beauty and compassion.
Contents
. ignorance . intensity . indignity . iniquity
Iniquity
to be unfair
to perform vice
to embody wickedness
SAFE
Bloody Mary tears and Tiffany window panes hunny - you ain’t gonna find happiness in that glass clinging to a routine you’ve grown accustomed to has caused a blindness of the heartand if he returned to youwhat would you have to say?uncomfortable giggles - shy averting eyesdon’t come close to concealing the senseyou lost when you forgotthe simple pleasureof the scent of clean laundryyou won’t ever have to let be that dirty again.
JUST TALK
Pedestrians talk politics
a common commotion addition
to the grind the sidewalk buckles we walk
but look the other waythis is time for holding hands
shoved deep in our pockets lingering,
scraping for fulfillment nervous,
sweaty palmsjust need a little airfor the current generationto again become magnetic.
CHAMPAGNE OF CAMPAIGNS
This is not a hippy agenda
or a new age scheme
this is not your politics, or his, or hersthis is not about who said what
to kiss or who's ass
this is, holy s**t people
we're headed for our own self-imposed nuclear blast.
You think it's real funnyhow the sitcoms still playand you can dress up pretendto spend money on s**t no one needsso funny how the hands sewing your hidekeeping overgrown egos and asses tetheredtied, bound, locked and chainedby the powers far removed from this earthly planein wait to take the excess a capitalist society gave you
while never mind avoiding the word – slave.
But there is no better than or lesser thanthose who buy into a lifestyle of recycled tire, rubber shoes this is not a tin can of politics, p...o...l....i...ticksand doesn't sweeten up so nice like b...l...u...berries!one of natures magnanimous gifts alrightstill managed to become a clam shellplasticised marketing scheme that failed to tellthe story of how the bugs sting, and stickwhile the sun in your eyes, beats down on you sweating
when growing and picking your own.
Remember this is not about hippies, spiritualists, or politics
this is a whispered rant of a rant
with dilated pupils
searching for light with a naked heart.
What I'm saying you cannot hear with your earswhat I'm saying is if we knew half the truthwith the common education many have herewe sure as hell wouldn't be sittin' in a room complaining
my back wouldn't be aching,
your prescription bottle wouldn't be shaking
making me me wonder also about your purse.
You can bet money
I've lost sleep doing this thinking
on where to find a few words to share the truthI was given to see.
If I could get you to believeit bears no religionnor promises of hope or fearthere’s not conspirator
with secret agendas
the clandestine is in plain view!
then I'll have faith in humanity
even if it's so hard to believe
at the essence of our beingwe all want the same thing... to be aware of each other
in acceptance of the meaning
con means with and awareness of othersthen it is so chosen,
the loss of consciousness
is not a dream from which to wake
since we see without your eyes
but instead our imaginations
feelings have volition and can drive without egoembracing them then is a friend of lightto all who are standing among us in reality.
ON HOLD
Let’s face it sweet,
guitar-playing swagger baby
we’re addicted to each other’s needs
and aches sipping,
deep sleeps nearing mid-daytip toeing
towards the wee hours
last night howling past the back of your head
gaping and begging
for the neighbours to close their doors
our trespasses permitted
by consenting bodies.
After awhile our sore’d souls cuddle back
into the internet
a black hole of feigned productivitypleasant moons,
hardly any excuse
to go outside
weathering within self-erected cubist existences.
Masterful smiles become quite the disguisefor raising hopes high
to the sound of bass
indoor smoking our throats rawignoring thoughts
of dreamland for another beat.
And the days keep passing by-begun by soft scratches of longingdeveloping a habit replacing hope
for seasonal change
these easy lazy pleasures stirring
whispers of 9-to-5ers tasted sour
as our delusional mixed elixirhaunted
like the misplaced handset tone
when those still sung from wired phone-lines.
Suddenly suspect to my place in your veinNo idealism can cure the coming painI beg you to face my eyes
and give me closure with our life
that resumed with the clack of the gate
and the last time I ever heard him say:
I love you.
FOUND HIS POEM
On this last dayof this monthI read his poetrywords sweetsoftly echoingagainst the black velvet Cloves
in the tungsten haze of evening
be my lullaby tonight
be the only memory reminder
of what was is a could never be.
Keep me quietfor my silenceis as deafening
as strong as my will seenot pointsbut momentsfrom all sides.
Be the anthemto transport us through time
to rebuild our groundfeel steady on footfeel physical distanceno obstacleto what the heart keeps.
Seconds tick like days
on our short clocks skippingreach beyond
standard comfort zonescontental amnesiawell be knownno band-aids here neededfor our inner mechanics steadyready to work
through dusk, sun, heat and cold.
There are indeed
some forces beyond our controlso why won’t it let us,
let go and feel the quiet
hear the emptinessof where you once were
ripped from my cellsand set free careeningthe sound of life's one trutha purpose of whichI suppose one day I may know
if I could just stoplooking to find the wayto where our pathsmeet again...
perhaps something elsewould be reformed from within—
but every timeI find that poemI wonder
if the next chapter refuses to be writtenas I continue to reanimate
someone as beingwhen he
was perhaps onlyan imagination.
© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.
Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL I.
First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.
The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.
