Asher Blake’s This One Friend

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This One Friend

The problem,
– he said –
with the knot… is all the folds…it’s all folded up…
into itself…upon itself…it can’t be answered.

None of these questions…It’s confounded by folds.

Pull them apart…unwrap them like little gifts…
now once you’ve got it all unfolded, stretch out the ends,
one opposite the other. Put the ends
away from each other,
far away.

He asked:

do you know the 72 centimeters of facial destruction?

– No. –

About someone’s face in Chinese Medicine?

I told him my face was the punching bag
of a thousand folded wings and
that I always give the best lines to myself
but that when I win this weekend,
I will get him all hooked up.

He said:

You should really meet Tonya.
She could tell your parents didn’t love you
and you ate hot soup in the rain.
She could tell all that
because your hair was mussed
fingers shaking
to sign up
for the experiment.

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Asher Blake’s The Inherited Farm

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The Inherited Farm

I wish I could have different ideas than about myself,
Sons of Texas.

We sleepless three days moan in meditation.
Room empty – a coffeepot and three foot siphon to the side.
The room-tomb become a cavern.

We are crackpot custodians,
anarchists of the chain of geodesic domes.
None of us have made the Waco postcards.

Like a little bird in my hands she swoons to me.
Why are the Sons of Texas so sexually dimorphic,
Patrick Lawler?

Asher Blake’s The Man Who Left No Mark

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The Man Who Left No Mark

They say he has forsaken us.
Wandering God, who knows where?
Leaving not happy with his children,
relying on us now to do.

That is what we say of him
behind his back now he
died. What words
did he offer,
thinking on us
who were in town that day?
Who is on our hands
and will not leave our minds,
who left a knocking in my heart
no one knows?
Who knows his word,
that is words
he spoke, no hill
his friends could sit on
as when he spoke of better things,
Magdalene…
Whisper me a word
he spoke, so none may hear,
whisper sweet, unregistered
we dine at dinner.
None may hear.
How he died at Calvary, when he
kissed my sins and died.
Don’t go near there!
Who told you –
who said you could be here!?!

He crept in with lepers’ beds.
He squabbled with fighting children,
by and by he simply made their troubles
fly. He ran out there, there was a sign,
where the man cried from
the mine field. What man
went there? Why, he lived
in an asylum, Worcestershire,
Gloucestershire, friends, friends
all followed, touching him
as lambs.
The family he had there
he boasted they did his meek will.

What was the thing he said
to gentle, gentle, people
at the square? He carried something
there that day – our hate,
that yet stays with me.
He told them not so,
not right, Pharisee,
and brought it on.
Something wrapped about him
there, our jealousy.
And serpent, serpent,
we forgot, they took his clothes
apart. Healer, healer
is it done? Naked, scorned,
the Tempter moved them
from the tree.
Was his race won?
Did the fruit that dropped
look good to eat as wisdom,
and tempt a savoring palette?
Do we go away so serpentine
from something so direct?

Nail down
that he was at the front,
the head of all the world,
which was then beginning
to be established in its ways.
He led himself,
(did he love the world?)
to the grave, to holes in rocks,
to caves for rich men,
to garden pits,
sitting close to us like a baby
wrapped at our breast,
not stopping –
the Christ child was lowered
down further to an endless pit
beneath where she longed
to follow, but the sword
pierced just her soul,
she yet breathed.
Walking there, what said the one
who left us here?

“They will come for you
if you are good.
They will come for you.
Do not cry for me,
but for yourselves,
and your children
at your breast.
The tree my Father
gave is Love.
They murder it,
they chase the dove.
For terror overspreads the Earth
since Adam’s bowed to Hell.
If shown the fresh face
of God they spit,
what will they do
when they aged and weathered it?”

Jesus and Social Justice

Asher Blake’s Vitruvian Architecture

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Vitruvian Architecture

When you say bye, honey,
you close the phone,
how you move me in whispers
when you lift your blouse,
I’m off the hook.
No one can imitate your little guttural pauses,
the brooks in your throat,
the goofed up words
and ideas re-sorted
up your body of vertical shelves
like Bukowski the postman was busy –
I am in love with your Ur-umms.

Lifted in his flight,
the center is the navel.
Can you find the place man turns?
The flash inside Vitruvius,
morning star twinkling his wings,
we open close to death.
In this body, this earth,
death. Take no sides, but crucify,
and we will rise
because He rose.
But we in the mirror of lovers
reveal one another palm to palm.

**

Mankind is stronger than a shaman,
and an oracle is wiser than a wise man.
Every person from every generation,
like clouds drop water,
gives the right sound to things.

Almost anything in us
is elsewhere in nature too.
And reflexive, instinctive working,
our human bodies think
in indescribable sensations.
Look at how muscular Rodin saw a thinker.
And we’re always thinking on classic problems.
Every being is a court with reliable weights,
(factor the difference.)
They are the same,
the same courts He loves.

Consider the universal medium of noise.
Horse hooves ought to sound officious,
with a weighty, clomping clip.
They are fit for authority.
The vicious bark of a brutal dog is catholic.

No one confuses it with a wagging tail.
The poignant falsetto of a whining dog,
who smells a cat,
who wants a scrap to fall,
is a ransom sound at the mercy of the world,
the wind of a high price.

The logos is not our construction.
The Earth was moved with knowledge
and etched in Subterrane,
the study of a skull,
centuries’ acidic drops.
Making breath by loaded water
shifting facial cavities
to the throat, catch of every
problem slid.

All animals keep company
in pretty much the same fung shui.
Or take the bedlam of a hurricane –
before it comes it tells us so.

The ocean is all too human.
We can drown in its noumenal,
sublime Atlantic mouth.
Can we escape by speaking for ourselves?
The water of water
hands you over to the one whose
tongue you truly speak.

**

Your mother’s hand on your hair,
once a ribbon tied it together,
is now your hand
putting my finger to the scroll
of my fathers’ Torah.

The babies crawling through
the fallopian mothers’-to-be,
were the way we crawled around
in darkness on Earth Day,
drinking from a keg with your friends
to celebrate our engagement.

You once stayed riveted to the built
and unbuilt American cyborg
as trains of human secret keepers
gouged the night with speed
from Portland to Chicago, and heartened
by the wondrous endurance of nature,
you buried your head beneath your wing
and thought of me.

Man Ray Sleeping Woman

Tati-Loutard’s News Of My Mother

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How effortlessly Tati-Loutard dances from the personal lyric, to the grandeur of the cosmic, to the pathos of the miniscule, to the deepest, chromatic grief.  This is a poetic language of a high communication, sending out its call to those with ears to hear.

News Of My Mother
by Jean Baptiste Tati-Loutard

I am now very high upon the tree of the seasons;
Far below I see the firm earth of the past.
When the fields opened themselves to the flow of seed
Before the baobab took aim at a flight of birds
With the first call of the sun,
It was your footsteps which sang around me:
A shower of bells chiming with my ablutions.
I am now very high upon the tree of the seasons.
Know by this fifteenth day of the moon
It is these tears – up till now –
Which fill your absence,
Which lighten drop by drop your image
Too heavy on my pupil;
Each night I waken drenched through with your pain
Even as if you lived in me again.

Oak Tree