zmwisethepoet

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Guillaume Apollinaire, from “Rhenish Autumn,” dedicated to Toussaint Luca

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“Saluting” the Alabaster Progenies

Written by L.J. Talbot

Published in The Literary Parrot Anthology

Hellfire brewing from the Second Continent…malicious activities. Fallen out of grace, weakness rises. Predictability written in treasonous blood. Triumphantly independent, equality for all! Our forebears made this country spectacular… for the White Man.

White Klansman ruins the title of Dragon and Wizard, turning to triangular ghosts of disgrace. Peace in their doll’s eyes involves no color but their own. To lynch is to be honored. To maim is to win every war. White Man’s rope hung the hangman and a karma-laden universe.

White Man in his White House, sequestered in conspiracy’s safety, endless halls with treacherous rooms.

White ‘Murrican’ Man flaunts his patriotism like an Ivy League graduate with doctorate in hand, boasting of benefits and the many joys of segregation, the splendors of the lack of unresolved issues. Separate, but equal, but sugarcoated. White Man’s white carpet turns red, the color of betrayal from ‘civil’ brothers.

 White Textbook Man made Jesus a glamorous dentine, lavish robes and biblical aromas. Every rendition, a fabrication of a Holy Grail Answer. The Spear of Destiny impales the carcass of White Man’s previous alter ego.

White Man demands that you speak the mechanical English language in a country that was never his to begin with.

Hungry, Hungry Hypocritical White Man turns his back on the newest families, arriving with aspirations of their own. Immigrants of horrific locations, dictated by those who would murder if questioned. They plead with waterfalls of sincerity, but he drives away in a Korean automobile, wolfing down spiced Pakistani dishes of nourishment. White Man just remembered where he placed a great number of Native Americans.

White Man waves his shielding genitalia. There are but two genders. You will never change his mind.

White Bread Man stuffs his face with wholesome artificiality. Mayonnaise and marshmallow fluff! White corn tortilla chips and sour cream! He bathes in ivory soap bubbles, cleansing his skin with absorbent microscopic children he released nary an hour ago. White Man’s stomach trampoline is on display through every mirror.

White Man utilizes lethal gases and increases oven temperatures, incinerating the roasted flesh of his own class.

White Man with a badge spreads the honest word that blue lives matter immediately after gunning down protestors with the only method of communication he has known his entire existence. His breed has made them the enemy since the dawn of sirens. He is yet another statistic on the Holy Hit List. White Man is only erect when his firearm is present.

White Man promotes himself, skinhead ways of life, the Neo-Con dream of the century.

White Machismo Man extends the impossible, forbidding white women to promote white feminism. Equality for all except the majority they call ‘minorities’. White Man’s nuances wag the decaying tail. White Man paints a target on the back of every woman. White Man inquires about what the term ‘intersectional’ means.

White Man, Heir of Destruction. White Man inherited a planet of pollution. White Man inhales pollution to be pessimistically optimistic.

White Settler Man 2.0 enslaves the rightful owners of the purest lands, tainting them with rodentia’s diseases. Listen to the White Man’s sage words while raping native women into traumatic oblivion. He calls them all ‘filthy savages’. White Man’s fate, decided by the arrowhead’s end.

White Man sings of paradiso. He should have listened to Lilith. His burden is his own.

 White Man in white collar, operating his deceased emerald brethren on numerical paper, privileged above all. Shuns the impoverished residing under dank overpasses, begging for half a life. He is quite charitable towards his investors. White Man speaks up about his own struggles.

White Whining Man is a staunch supporter of racial division. There are great numbers of ethnic heritage months because he made all progress possible. White Man’s idea of progress is inevitable defeat.

White Man pays no heed to the vicissitudes of modern living, for he was always in the past tense.

White Knight Man defends the honor of women who wish to speak for themselves. Bodyguard for the Incels, tormented misfits whose virginity is a rabid kennel beast. They spend their funds on deliberate objectification, to ogle at a dream that remains a magazine photograph. White Man’s superiority complex is small penis energy.

White Man stands alone, kissing his first world problems on the reflecting glass lips.

Straight White Man weeps, pounding sand about how there is no Straight Day to celebrate, no Straight Month with soft, grey parades. White Man does not comprehend acceptance. White Man, straight and diamond mind mundane.

White Man cries out for his former alliance, yet his abandoned principles retaliate.

Abrahamic White Man wants you to believe in his white deity. He is welcoming if you join the mountainous army of chanting followers, but points a mortal finger of judgment if you spurn his Lord and Savior. White Man’s finger is now officially broken.

White Man loves his orientation, yet the rights of humans beyond his are excluded from his fallen kingdom.

White Food Chain Man endangers his fellow creatures by means of bullet kisses and taxidermy trophies. He deserves his Bald Eagle mascot, a thief and scavenger by natural trade. White Man does not discover; his parasitic form feasts on scraps of original delicacies.

White Man lives his own afterlife, serving white voices with blackface paint… Reminder of a world too white for him.

I am an independent river flowing the other direction. My alabaster skin is ashamed to be seen around the lot of you, mutations of descendants. A melting pot of curiosities, we ought to be. A species who is eager to learn, but the race has reached the finish line.

July 8, 2020

Copyright  © Z.M. Wise 2020

[zmwisethepoet]

Hope I did not butcher this piece TOO much!!! :O

[zmwisethepoet]

This was an early piece of mine that was written for a concept poetry collection. While I realize the title sounds closer to The Beach Boys than ever, I was, in fact, inspired by 'A Horse with No Name' by America for the melody. Uploading this piece was a classic example of an exercise in attempting not to cringe at what makes me cringe. Please go easy on me, though, as the piece was written eleven years ago. The lyrics were then accepted for publication in a feminist anthology. Purchase your copy today!

[zmwisethepoet]

Rock Stars Play the Devil in Movies

I owned something of yours. Slivers of your unsafe soul drawing the eye like sunlit water;

freely given, fearfully shielded among the dregs of kinder days.

Tonight I let them swoop like roses onto the rolling tide, succumbed, swallowed, spent.

Even holding tight you never knew who I was meant to be to you;

swept close to all your lives, not anchored in any one. I know you felt on your skin

the swift storm you broke and that you recall it ruefully,

half prepared to tell me with pained eyes years hence, when I’ve ceased to threaten rain.

So I let them go, these moments reflected in your blue-and-gold,

not thinking, come home to me, come home to me; not for a second returning to the crossroads.

[zmwisethepoet]

A brand new #bookreview by yours truly! :-)

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Check out my new friend and aspiring visual artist’s IG! Give this artist some love!!!

[zmwisethepoet]

2020-Early 2021, or How I Learned to (Never) Stop Worrying and “Love” Global Anxiety

Published in Winter Edition of Harbinger Asylum

           “I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring!” Before this commences any further, I would like to be selfish for a brief moment and set aside a few words for David Bowie. Earlier this month marked the fifth year of his absence from this planet, as well as what would have been his seventy-fourth birthday. We have lost many artists in many respected fields over the years, including Gil Scott-Heron, Leonard Cohen, Selena, Prince, Greg Lake, and countless others. David Bowie meant and still means a great deal to me as a creator, as well as a human being. The bounty of work and tremendous impact he left behind for his musical contemporaries and his descendants cannot be unmatched. Furthermore, and I hate to seem melodramatic, but if it was not for David Bowie’s words and aural pleasures, I would not be on Earth, existing in this physical life. Around the middle of my sophomore year of high school, I was ready to take my own life. By some stroke of luck, Bowie’s music was able to reach me at a time when friends and family could not. My inner voice heard the dulcet tones, became encircled by musical wonderment, and whispered to me, “You are not finished yet.” I owe him an infinite amount of gratitude for many silent gestures, including: introducing me to a number of gifted artists from around the globe, helping me to embrace the full power of diversity and eclectic nature within the arts, and breathe new life in me. This newfound breath of life added a dash of a unique sense of being, as well as a sense of self. David, wherever you are in the Cosmos, ‘thank you’ would be an understatement. As Scott Walker said to you on your fiftieth birthday, “I’ll have a drink to you…on the other side of midnight.”

           Until last Wednesday, a small boy isolated himself in a toy store the size of a mansion. He remained as cloistered as humanly possible. His mother insisted that they leave and that he could not have the toy he so desperately desired. His mother tried every tactic that her parental skills could manifest, but to no avail. It was useless. The boy simply refused to leave. This situation was the only analogy I could concoct to describe D****d T***p, the former President of the United States. So much is to be said about the ‘actions’ within his presidency, the lack of tact he blatantly showed, as well as the pomposity of his overall demeanor. My father gave the best description of T***p. He said, “He is a caricature of himself.” Even repeating that remark aloud brings me to tears induced by hysterical laughter. The truth is evident, as well as being stranger than fiction. It is worth noting that while I am unashamedly writing this way about the jive turkey that slightly over half of the country voted for, I am by no means glorifying the opposition, either. I daren’t bring up my explicit political views as an individual to the table, mainly because they are beyond jaded to begin with. While I have issues that I stand for and against, I see no reason for them to reach the public eye when the very country I reside in is more divided than united in more ways than one. I have not sided with either major party since I can remember, but I contribute as a citizen in any way possible. An individual votes with their heart, their mind, and their gut instinct. If and when we become more united, I may feel more inclined to discuss said views.

           Like numerous other political skeptics, I will be watching in the wings to see how this newfangled presidency unfolds. Whatever ensues, I am thankful that the T***p has officially left the building. After the insurrection, there was absolutely nothing that could salvage his title…not after every insignificant syllable that was uttered from his lips. I am almost envious of textbook writers and young schoolchildren in the sense that this particular chapter of American and world history will be taught in such a way that will never be forgotten. In addition to being an insult to the country, the name (and word) T***p will permanently instill terror into the hearts of many, as well as secretive and public elation for others. It was a horror comedy film with so many sequels that it became an internationally known franchise. I demand a refund for the loss of my brain cells. There is one beautifying factor of T***p’s brief tenure as president, one that I will miss for as long as I live: the bottomless pit of free entertainment, as well as the entertainment value that followed. From the endless piles of memes and song parodies to the talented people who can impersonate him and his arsenal of mannerisms, wit knows no end. Fun fact: T***p was the only president who blocked people on Twitter. I am quite jealous of the few people I know who have earned that badge of honor. Then again, Twitter bestowed an even bigger honor on the Chief Blocker himself. Oh, digital glory! May this new chapter unify us in boundless fits of laughter. I also feel the need to remind you that everything displayed is merely my opinion. My words are not gospel, despite the outrage nation we live in where the attitude of one too many individuals is, “Everyone is entitled to my opinion, and your belief system is lower than dust.”

           After viewing the inauguration and the host of multifaceted artists who received the genuine honor of performing before Joe Biden, Kamala Harris (First Woman and First POC Vice President…absolutely incredamazing), their diverse team, and the entire nation, one person’s distinctive performance stuck with me. It was not Jennifer Lopez. It was not Lady Gaga. It was none other than Amanda Gorman, the youngest National Youth Poet Laureate and the youngest poet to recite at an inauguration. I regret to say that prior to this reading, I have only heard her name being spoken during conversations about my literary contemporaries. After watching selected recitations and reading certain compositions, her piece ‘The Hill We Climb’ sent my cranium and third eye for a loop. Not only was her voice full of conviction and soul, but the words she expelled screamed truths we longed to hear. From moments of her history to the current state of affairs, ‘The Hill We Climb’ is the epitome and living embodiment of human sensibility, a wakeup call that not only belongs to this country, but the entire blue-green globe that we inhabit. We are but mere guests in this living, breathing sphere and it is our duty to preserve it beyond our abilities. After all, as the old adage goes, “The Earth does not belong to us. We belong to the Earth.” Amanda Gorman’s honor as an inaugural poet stems from a prestigious role that only a small handful of other have played. They are as follows: Robert Frost, Maya Angelou, Miller Williams, Elizabeth Alexander, and most recently, Richard Blanco. Besides the usual set of messages, musical performances, praise, and other inauguration rituals, the poem is said to exemplify who we are as a country and the actions we should be taking. It is a gentle, yet harsh reminder of the matters that are and the matters that will be. In this century, ‘The Hill We Climb’ is nothing short of needed, the jolt of electricity to shock us back to life after everything we have endured thus far. In addition to the multitude of medical staff members and frontline workers receiving the vaccines they so rightfully earned, Amanda Gorman is a hero in my book. How she recited her piece will forever be ingrained in my mind. May this excerpt from her poem affect you the same way, Dearest Readers.

“But, one thing is certain, if we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright.”

January 21-23, 2021

[zmwisethepoet]

Eradicating Chaos, Inviting Duende

Published as the Cover Letter in Harbinger Asylum: Fall 2020 Issue

           It is no secret that we have entered another dark chapter of earthly hell this year. I have yet to meet a soul who claims that 2020 was not that terrible. I thank goodness that this conversation has not transpired, because if it did, I would be rendered speechless and walk as far away as my feet could carry me. Sheer optimism alone will not cloak the prominence of our two main invisible enemies: COVID-19 and racial injustice, the latter of which has been occurring since time immemorial. While we as humans try with every fiber of our being to do what is necessary to protect our species, it does not always pan out in our favor. As history shows, it rarely seems to bode well that way. One too many have fallen at the hands of others. To this day, why we willingly degrade, exile, inflict physical and mental trauma, corrupt, and kill our own kind based on what we deem as inferior, whether it be gender, race, orientation, religion, or other factors still baffles me beyond all belief. It pains my heart to see certain peaceful protests and demonstrations of equality turn riotous because of the ‘authority strike of fire’ on an innocent. It makes me question the very nature of our collective existence. Perhaps this makes me ignorant or unmindful. Perhaps it leads me to believe that there is no hope for humanity whatsoever. As much of a neutralist [or cynical realist] as I am, I refuse to believe that we are headed straight for oblivion. While we are infants in comparison to other species on this planet, we have much to learn and we are still attempting to do so.

          The late comedian George Carlin once said that our species had our chance and we squandered it. I agree with him to an extent. This is part of the reason why I am neutral on the prospect of our species colonizing on Mars. Why is it, however, that the many groups of people who attempt to preserve our sapphire and emerald home, as well as its inhabitants, are overshadowed by the amount of parasites that form into one gargantuan maelstrom? It is fascinating how a great deal of us choose to focus on the negative and leave the positive to be feasted on by mental scavengers. Let us not forget the alarming amount of natural disasters, a gory political battle, and a certain species of hornet with a menacing moniker.

          The aforementioned virus has been the cruelest teacher that this planet could ask for, save certain actions that should have been taken in its preliminary stages. It has taught us what we can accomplish as a collective as long as we cooperate with the necessary precautions. It has tested our mental limits and patience, provoking us to lose our craniums and step out into the warzone as if our lives are still perfectly normal. It has separated us into two categories: the paranoid and the reckless. The tragically hilarious part is that both sides believe that their actions are correct and the other side is being moronic in some form or fashion. I do my absolute best to remain in the middle. I am not going to subject myself to any small or large variations of a high-risk environment with high-risk individuals while protecting myself and the people I love, but I am by no means going to board myself in my home until this umpteenth wave of chaos has ceased to be. It has attempted to rewire our thinking and survival tactics. I am torn between shaking my head at those who freely choose to remove their masks in public and congregate in larger crowds, save a few noble causes, and feeling a massive amount of pity for those who have lost the willpower to remain isolated from those they love and the social activities that were suddenly stripped from them. Our species was not wired for prolonged isolation and quarantine. Many introverts have converted to extroverts who wish to splurge their social juices. Nevertheless, such actions have caused medical staff members and frontline workers around the globe to put themselves at higher risk than anyone else. They are more heroic than people seem to realize. I lost my mind within the first couple of months of this pandemic and I have yet to reclaim it, but I am not going to risk everything and everyone I hold dear to me just for the possibility of losing health as well. John Lydon once said, “Life is precious and not a thing to be destroyed,” though he was speaking on the subject of Kurt Cobain’s sudden passing. Such a statement relates to our present situation.

          If you have read this far in the ink words of such unintentional vitriol, I salute you. After all, as author Madeleine D’Engle once said, “Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light.” Where does chaos end and where does duende begin? For those of you who do not know the latter word’s definition, that is quite all right. I am not speaking of the Latin American mythological creature of the same name. Duende is one of many ‘incredamazing’ words that cannot be translated into English, but contains a powerful definition. Duende is described as ‘a work of art’s mysterious power to deeply move someone’. For centuries, many creators and their chosen crafts (or the crafts that chose them) have spread a trillion and eight possibilities, unless they carried a sole intention. During a fraction of this time, the element of self-expression came into play through the creation itself. Most of the time, it has been used to evoke thoughts from the masses. It is also during this time that the arts have placed our minds at ease amidst the chaos, whether through aural pleasures, the written word, the visual and suspended, the visual and in motion, or kinetic and tangible. We have relied on the arts to keep us relatively sane, centered, and balanced. A personal philosophy of mine, especially during the accursed year of 2020, is that as long as you do not inflict harm upon others or yourself, sanity is overrated. At this point, if you are not at least a tad bit cuckoo or peculiar, I may not trust you. For me as an individual, the arts, whether appreciating or creating, is a lustful craving, akin to fitness, meditation, and other various pleasures. What is more relevant is that it contains the power to grant us hope and to aid us in not losing that hope, even if at this point, hope is a thin, sliver-shaped shrapnel piece. Despite the number of life-threatening cases that seem to continue piling on, we cannot lose this shrapnel of hope. Many of the word wielders in this issue of Harbinger Asylum exhibit this intention through their poetry and prose, as well as the captors of photographic serenity. I am thankful to have played a major role in the development of this journal and Transcendent Zero Press in this manner, as well as the manner of diversity in our pages. Each issue and each manuscript we release is like a basket of potpourri delights, some containing mysterious elements and the other with raucous neon gods.

          We are not out of the woods quite yet, my dearest fellow peoploids. However, we will make it through this seemingly apocalyptic Tartarus. We must make it through, for the sake of our health and the universal love we cling to day in and day out. I would personally like to dedicate the Fall Edition of Harbinger Asylum to the fallen victims of 2020, whether through the violent brutalities of racial injustice, those whose bodies succumbed to the virus, and those we have lost due to Madre Terra’s disasters, as well as the disasters we created ourselves. To your families, every medical staff member, frontline worker, and to everyone reading this journal, I say, “Pax vobiscum. Poetry lives. Long live the arts.” …and dare I add, “Long live love.”