Alone

This sound says more than I can say Your trail stretched out in front of me But I don’t feel capable of walking it It’s like a cold shadow that doesn’t allow the seed to sprout, An interrupted laugh still in my throat…. And I’ll still be here at midnight At the nearest train station, towers of fog lie on the night roads of the mind, Follow the line of reason; the intrepid destiny of dawn, Before the world spins and the heart shakes, The space opens for another farewell wave…

I want you closer, but I don’t know where to start. The night kissed the wind and the rain fainted around the corner, The welcome signs faded into the landscape. One time, joy folded her tiny hand and snapped her fingers into glittery lights. In my thinnest version it was necessary to be vast and embrace all sights. Only among the white-capped Nordic mountains did a new day emerge transiently, And each step made everything coexist simultaneously, and perhaps it had been like this since the beginning: white sand house, blue flame of the northern lights, coastal mill headquarters, salt dune, matrix flora, abyssal paradise, rainbow in the shape of a pinwheel.

COCOON

I saw my externist today

and got my prescriptions filled

for a well-curated array

of armor auras and pills

to protect me against weathers

and germs. And also to blunt,

like a cuirass wrought of leather,

the intimacy of hugs

and the taste and touch of kisses.

In this invisible plate

I can discover what bliss is,

now that I’m inviolate.

THE ENGAGEMENT

Every man must embrace his war.

Our crown and temples we must defend,

our missionary positions enforce.

Ignore our sacrifice of semen.

We engage body against body

for the future sakes of all the children.

 Until a little peace is rendered

we expose our privates at the front;

we bear arms but only to surrender.

A ROPE AND A PIPE

The sharpshooter’s father

learned to dance

when he married the ropemaker’s daughter.

“No saddle

instructs the horse to prance.

The lesson is always in the bridle.

Nothing is so efficient as a gun’s

violence,”

the marksman taught his son.

“The bullet

can establish your best environment,

find your foe and kill it.

Sing to me when I die

if you wish,

but know that music’s a waste of your time.

Don’t get drunk,

and put down that damn flute! Be like the fish,

who only dance when hooked.”

And the son followed his dad’s direction.

A trigger

captained his affections.

But his flute

and humble philosophy and liquor

led him to peace and truth.

BY INVITATION ONLY

No. Lacking your exact welcome mat,

my poems/your name cannot attach.

Not entitled to your writhing nights

or flash-thoughts of unsari’d thigh,

a-thirst I stand at the Well of Unrequited.

THE SHIP

Oh, the mariner is like the moon;

perfect the once in the month

when my land concedes to your sea.

Our boat was, before, a forest,

leaves like sails, winds

like a petrel’s exhale.

Anchored by a stone that once

hugged earth, like mom and son.

And the sea, the sea. The basket

of stars upside-downed, so all

its flowers scatter everywhere.

HOLOCAUST AND REGENERATION

Fires hibernate in the trees.

The forest flowers,

red and gray,

race through underbrush,

uproot wild life

and humanity.

The burn tattoos the earth.

But growth curls within the rain.

Balmful sky rivers

swell heaven’s banks

to soothe scar wounds.

Seeds find footholds

for a newer green.

Creatures settle in.

Havoc hides inside the grain.

Fields uncelibate themselves.

We clear space

to celebrate

to dance to drink

to lure relief

from the caress that grinds.

Election Results

He’s staying 

Up late

With a box

Of wine

And a frozen pizza,

A meal 

That he’s hardly

Able to taste,

Except for

The worry

And the sadness

And the fear.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fifth book, was published in May.

Poetry Soup (which we could call Letters Soup, an international community of poets) sent me this book with the poetic side of this monster that, as an Argentine friend of mine says: “is a lit match in the social arsehole.”

TRUMPETER SCUMBAGSAURUS

In the North American elections

That we could call  erections “made in USA”

How many Republican brays have won a government

Losing with great sorrow other democratic brays.

After the greeting between a very stupid donkey

And another convicted donkey and a very master

To the voting and exultant plebs of Judeo-Christians

Jews, Evangelicals, Mormons, of the Ku Klux Klan

Of white supremacist terrorist hatred

Satanists, Christians and other sects

They have been seen greeting as Tsar, as Führer or as Pope

As guide, leader, leader of the American People

Spiritually, politically and militarily

To this Trumpeter Scumbagsaurus

Although he has greeted them effusively, saying:

-“You have chosen a Donkey

America Great Again”.

Let them eat their bread

If the Americans have voted like donkeys.

More the pity, and History will tell us the truth

It is that the pious, in their daily life

On Saturdays, Sundays and holidays

And the pious women of nocturnal adoration

Will offer themselves here, there and everywhere

Opening their shells to the powerful ejaculations

Of this Trumpeter Scumbagsaurus

Sent by God for his illustrious feats and wonders

Like the Assault on the Capitol

And his great Al Capone-style evils

Son of immigrants like him.

With his carnal club, this trumpeting monster

Will make an omelet of the brains of the abortionists

Closing with padlocks the happy vaginas

Of the women ready to abort.

Knowing the sufferings of homosexuals and lesbians

This formidable, supreme monster

Will put them to work in the depths of a cave

Crouching in the form of donkey asses

To see if they can extract oil

Teaching them to bray for his own glory.

Being certain that he will throw out immigrants

For eating the flesh of cats, rats and dogs

Opening only a furrow with his penis in the Mexican wall

For women to learn to bray with their cunts

Because he calls himself the defender of the fair sex

Giving all nations the good advice

To learn to bray with him, for him and in him

Because he knows very well

That only fools follow, adore and venerate him

For as he himself says:

-Even the Bible is written by and for fools.

That believers bray and will bray

Having a full manger

Is what makes him happy and tearful

Watching on TV how his money grows

Because of the shedding of blood

And the brutal genocide.

A young woman was amazed

Watching the gentleman on the cover

Exclaiming that the face of this saintly poet

Was that of a Trumpeter Scumbagsaurus.

-Daniel de Culla