English Poems

by Gene Tanta [USA]

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Back in Romania, I knew a gypsy boy named God who carved words in his inner thigh 

Back in Romania, I knew a gypsy boy named God who carved words in his inner thigh
with barbed wire teeth as he ran from the securitate. God’s gypsy mother
would shiver and tell our fortune after black coffee. She would read the grainy residue
and tell us how tender the devil’s foot felt to touch, tho invisible
to our eyes. Off the clock, she would sigh to herself about how much smarter
and more handsome her son was than other sons. Once,
my father accidentally stepped on the foot of an invisible devil. God’s mother was not shy.
She cried the devil’s part. After hours, the gypsy woman slept
in our dim dinning room lit by the streetlight’s beam
punched odd by the curtains. The moonlight is not worth mentioning.
She changed right in front of us, wiggling her wrinkly breasts for us
to giggle at. She kissed the head of my penis. I remember wanting to urinate in her mouth. But how could I?

The Story of the Crow 

A young crow is bathing in a pool late around eleven. It was summertime and late and everybody was eating green onions from their gardens but the little crow grew lonesome. So lonesome, in fact, that she started to sing to feel less alone. This way, the sound of her voice was a kind of whistling in the dark when she would lift her head to gaze upon the grand nothing (which looked puny from so far away).

Someone stole the young crow’s candy and from this day on she flies and caws as loud as she can: “Taking into account that my candy isn’t a joke, but has tragic elements to taste.” The crow said this with her out of body voice stuffing the sounds in the large ear of what surrounds. This much holds, this much remains.

Yo mama’s got one glass eye and a lightning rod out of habit. “My miracle work cannot be weighed upon a scale, comrade Linguini Marinara,” intoned the old crow.   

“Kiss them for me and tell them my longing for chlorine-free water grows stronger with each passing day,” said the young crow over her shoulder. 

Because armament leads us to docility, our business affairs necessitate that we shake hands with the officer shooting in the road. Further down the footpath a spell, the crow shuts its mouth and starts a tiny fire by winking at us with its glass eye (recently chipped by a local boy with a slingshot who no longer jaunts the way he once did).

This field is rich in worms and other details. Whatever makes a sound can be swallowed, if we are to trust a fox like you. Every now and again, the army shoots in the air over our heads. We have shields and a state. The crow shakes herself vigorously in the black pool.   

A Handsome Raccoon

Plain-spoken said nothing. Plain-spoken turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to our failed crops and veteran migraines. Plain-spoken pointed up, citing utter exhaustion due in large part to the upstairs herbivores. Deciduous turned crimson with rust. Deciduous steeled herself against the gawkers and their existential ruminations behind brown hibiscus. Deciduous laminated every gasoline memory and frying pan she could after the economic collapse finally capsize her eggs. Fickle turtled its head and mocked the rest of us with melon breath. Fickle blinded herself on accident. Fickle blamed everyone but herself with the pin hammer residing in her hand, abiding by the laws of November. Melancholia decided to burn all her bras from yesterday’s closets. Melancholia fingered one of the silent arsonists because of the stigma associated with gang rape. Melancholia recharged her body parts with the electrodes of suspense and barbarity. Fear never looked back, going the wrong way down a one way alleyway. Fear cost us dearly. Fear swallowed hard. Fastidious collie allowed fire to ring around in her dark pupils. Fastidious collie lined us up against the brick wall of nighttime and shot us full of mercy. Fastidious collie climbed the wood hanger without trouble but the flames had already shown in her eyes. Hunger flung herself at the crowd bare-chested and free. Hunger swept the shards after the party when all the light bulb could do was remembered its faint reflection. Hunger bungled the job with its hairy back. Longing demanded lasting results. Longing terminated its lease before the melons softened in the fruit-bowl. Longing brought its friends along but a handsome raccoon had eaten all the pizza.

6 Comments

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  4. Adrian Ioniţă

    Several years ago I videotaped a lecture of Lucid Dreaming’s Tzar, Stephen La Berge. At one point, all the audience, with two exceptions, did visualizations with closed eyes. Talking about the subject to my spiritual friend and guru, Indian philosopher Iswar Puri, he pointed out that our physical eyes are not a gate to our consciousness. Reality will not sink in the open eyes of a sleeping man, is what he said:) Isn’t that wonderfull? Lucid Fiction, your genre, may work on the threshold of many realities, the way the hypnagogic state of mind offers us a glimpse into a world inaccessible to our eyes. A stream of consciousness so precious that is worth defying any narrative rulings. Tanta’s Tantra. Out of fascination, I shamelessly invite more of you on Short Story.
    Adrian

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