Blood Honey (originally published at Fugitives & Futurists)

Pulled 
into breath,
lingering 
and damp
under nostrils’ slow 
b   u   r   n,
wet tips of tongues
melt, dart,
and slide
into syrupy tangles,
furious 
with hot spit and
exhales, sweet as
red pomegranate.
Your little gasps
(my little deaths)
fire cutting teeth
and hungry lips,
drawing us 
in,
spitting us
out—
blood honey in a syringe—
into the heavenly hell 
of this hypodermic love—the sugar 
in my veins. 



Blue Light (originally published at Terror House Magazine)

Against an old Chevrolet on Maudlin Street, I smoke a cigarette—hard—chuckling at the hisses and howls of alley cats beneath the butcher shop’s broken neon sign. They flick their tails and prowl about, pestering fellas headed home to cold wives and cold dinners, straight from the misery of their long evening shifts. Persistent, with purrs and claws—smooth as cream— they graze oily pant legs (and thighs) for want of a rub…or two. Flicking my smoke at the sidewalk—a cherry-fire explosion drawing the glow of hungry eyes—a young, new one to the corner catches my eye, preening her strawberry-yellow hair, distracted by night shadows that stretch and duck in the periphery. Lighting another smoke, I call her over with a “Psst”, motioning with my hand, as tracers from a flaming tip pull heads from her pounce in unison, to and fro. Cautiously, she turns to me, as the sign overhead begins to flicker blue, casting a harsh pallor upon angled faces with its undead light. Motioning, again, she slowly heads my way—eyes shining and features soft. “What’s tonight’s special?”, I ask, as she pulls the cigarette from my newly shaken fingers and takes a drag. Letting out a long sigh, she blows a steady stream of spite—sweet—into my face, and jabs, “A pound of flesh with a side of soul. Hungry?”, looking as if she’d heard that line one too many times. “Nah,” I answered (a burn taking over my cheeks), “not tonight.” Then I turned and walked away down Maudlin Street, wishing I knew her name, loving her.


Medicine (originally published at Dumpster Fire Press)

You
are my medicine
when things are 
fever-pitched
fucked-up
shit
dismantled
glitched.
When calm
disperses
like cigarette smoke 
in fan blades, 
overhead—
tarring popcorn ceilings 
and textured walls
with burns and
invisible drops
of carcinogenic rain.
What better salve
for the poundings 
in my chest—
palpitations
consternations
vascularizations
reformations
indemnifications
of a life, juxtaposed,
away from those eyes
that mouth
that touch of skin, yours,
the sedation 
of cool breath 
on hot forehead
and the combing
of fingertips 
through currents
of sweat-matted hair—
this world I know. 
You 
are
my
medicine.


Neon Gods (originally published at Cephalorpress)

Sacred footsteps 
of pilgrims and 
street PrOphETS 
atop
piss-stained lottery tickets and 
dirty hypodermics—
like rose petals, strewn
under maidens’ tender feet—
pave the way
to playing card Meccas
beyond doors
to salvation/damnation,
below fiery eyes that cut
the night (and souls) in two
with gazes and blinks 
(but never sleep). 

Quite the price 
to pay
to cross these fickle streams
that run
sacrificial red 
with self-severings 
of thigh bone and fat,
savory-sweet 
and spiced with lotus wine—
offerings 
in want of burning
on conjured stages and 
electric alters
for Vanity’s 
spectacle.

How divine 
the honied stench
of auto-vivisections (splayed out
for all to see),
making followers and 
the blue birds in flight
forget 
appetites and tastes for
eyes (for eyes) and teeth (for teeth)— 
for the sake of ounces (of fame) 
for pounds (of flesh)—
like cold Lethe 
and her gentle lapping,
smooth, of jagged rocks
upon Hell’s bitter shores.
 
Let us pray 
(for emergence
from this opiate haze
and a quick flip of the switch).

Amen.



Discoloration (originally published at Cajun Mutt Press)

Hopscotch squares
and street flowers,
drawn with sidewalk chalk,
‘round castles that sit upon
sun-dried patches 
of brown cloud,
stretch across concrete slabs
like ghosts of crime scenes
pulled from tabloid headlines
of an old Daily Post.
White
with electric pinks, blues, and yellows
etch hopeful prognostications
(like blades)
on crumbling slates,
amidst the stink
of fermenting cigarette butts
and backwash
from broken beer bottles—
a chill before the storm.
How long
before the next hard rain
that washes away the stuff of dreams
in Technicolor runoff
for parched gutters,
leaving the street, again,
to cry lifeless tears,
splattering upon stoops
and stone-cold petals,
that turn brown in the sun?

Yearning

The crickets sing accompanied by their sonorous violins, I wonder where you will be... See that the moon flirts with them, and who will you smile with?

The fireflies illuminate the recital, and your face does not appear. In my thoughts you fade like the moon. The cocuyos dance happily to the beat of the cello,

He smiled, they dissipate me to solitude, while I lose myself in the bonfire that my cigarette lit.

Colombia

Look the Other Way



He runs into the ex

At the grocery store,

The kind of thing

Where it seems like

The two of them

Are aware of each other,

But no one

Does anything,

There are no looks,

There are no words,

Nothing is shared,

Who knows if

There will ever be

A time to say the things

That could

Have been said

Long ago,

He just knows that

That time

Is not today.



Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”

*The Lost Balloons*

In this year's Canvass
Balloons embark on an ethereal plane
Above the sky, balloons soar in farewell weather
With each gentle breeze, their spirits take flight
Escaping gravity's hold.
A doctor's healing touch
A neighbors nod
An Aunt's counsel
A friend's embrace disappears.
As they ride neutral balloon in the sky of departure
Balloons which left colors of pains and grief's heavy veil
Carrying stories of dreams like frayed nylon
A symphony of farewell under the same sun.
As their eyes close *Almaut* '' they whisper.
Guided by *Manrobbuka* call
A question asked as souls commence their dance
In whispered prayers their name etched my tongue.
As my eyes curse this silent stranger's bitter sting,
How do I say this?
the courageous ''Moremi'' has lost her courage as every passing time, it shrinks like the sand of
time.
In my talk to the Almighty '' Let their nostrils perceive the sweet fragrance of paradise''



Muhammad Habibat Sani (Ummuyasmeen) is a 300-level law student at Usmanu Danfodiyo University Sokoto. As a poet and story writer, she uses words to explore themes of loss, courage, and spirituality.

PROPER AT THE TIME


The law allows crimes

of forethought or passion.

Playwrights try out lines

and dancers do their actions.


Quiet as dryads

avoiding a giant,

oysters hide their pearls

displayed later on girls.


Belfries have their chimes

and seasons their fashions.

Boldness has its time

but so does discretion.


There were were times I squirrelled

when I should have lioned

and times I lioned

when I ought to have squirrelled.




PERSISTENCE: SONNETS


Shirtless skin carries snow air.

Shoeless, I wear icy earth

when I, rarely, leave my lair,

You perch secure in your church.

Trusting my brow as my shield,

I mustered force at the mouth.

I thrust my tongue like a spear--

your dogma against my truth!

I abhorred your insistence

on self-mortification,

I championed subsistence

and you upheld starvation.

We need manna and diamonds

just because we are humans.


Emperors love their hermits,

who won’t covet royal wealth.

Their hereditary health

rests on strategic remits

to pious institutions,

the prestige of excellence,

and the strength of regiments

to forestall revolution.

Creeds leverage prayers and thanks.

Psychiatry thrives on angst,

and martial glory on rank.

Artistry is fixed by merit,

aristocracy by kindred,

and longevity by spirit.


My heresy, though reasoned,

was opposed by fat scholars.

Artists and philosophers

denounced me as a traitor.

The entire establishment

against me was arrayed,

so I was indeed afraid.

And, soon, my armor was bent,

but it remained unbroken.

I was driven from the field

but was never forced to yield.

I tend unfamined gardens:

We know the rose is the crown

worn upon the throat of thorns.



AS SPARTANS, ENGAGED


The sky was perforated

by the moon’s silver bullets

that hit granite’s armor gray

and ricocheted.


Under that wounded mirror

we advanced our tongues like spears

upon our breastworks and flanks

in tight phalanx.


And we held our positions

until the day’s divisions

maneuvered to enhostage

our exhaustion.


But truce is propaganda,

a celibate’s tired banter.

We knights must bare arms and thrust

until we’re dust.



SEEKING REDEMPTION


I admit it: I’ve been tempted

by this Temporal.

I have attended all your temples

and confessed all my faults,

and I’ve attempted to chorus

your stories and creeds


by breaking like untamed horses

the sounds in your teeth,

and, in stillness, to contemplate

the shape of my soul

and to decipher its template

in part or in whole.


Your incense, vestments, candles, bells,

and chants fail to steel

your myself against my myself--

are you even real?



YOUR VOTE MATTERS



Puppets, oblivious to your strings:

Pilots guide us to the best moorings.

Nominees have agreed to debate face-to-face

behind plastic surgery and camouflage

(poets explicate morning’s meanings)

and to present their platforms and programs

comprehensively in sound bites and slogans.

Plaintiffs blame hangovers on mornings.

It is hard to tell sincerity from cant,

(Pirates always give a fair warning.)

but it’s true, positions change with circumstance.

Prophets foretell an end to morning.

--puppets, oblivious to your strings.