Coming Soon
There’s a stylish tattoo
That is waiting for you,
First given in West Africa.
It’s not a tattoo
You can see,
But most likely,
It will be free.
It will allow you
To come and to go,
To get some of the things
That you need.
It will tell the man
Things about you;
Just about everything
That he needs.
Two Dollar Talisman
I have never professed to know much, although what I do know,
is there’s a distance between want and need, the road is plagued with storms, the rain in time causes your ambition to rust, your ego begins to bleed, your hunger doesn’t entitle you admission, to take part in the soul feast, you, still believing no one’s pain is greater than your own, convinced you’ve paid your dues, fate now owes you, but you’ve defaulted on the loan.
Your want is always a demand, to please an image reflected in a selfish mirror, you’re damned to keep counting blessings, coming up short, then feeling cheated, out of what was never yours. And you ask why your prayers go unanswered, your self indulgent wishes are ignored, worshiping the two dollar Talisman, bought at the thrift store, it has exhausted any cosmic goodwill it never had before, turns out to be just another poor choice, as a last resort. if a line between right and wrong ever existed, you snorted it long ago, and a conscience you considered an encumbrance, was shedd in liability’s shadow.
I’ve lived in life’s underbelly, a deplorable existence, the reward for addiction and a troubled mind, been to places where God wouldn’t go, acting on a drug’s bad advice, I’ve learned the less I wanted, the more I understood what it is I need, it rains diamonds on Neptune, and there’s blue sunsets on Mars, but what do I know,
I’m just an imitation of me.
When She’s Gone
When she’s gone
No more endearing smile to greet my return
or laugh at wry and corny puns.
No caress of the neck or tender rub of the arm.
An absence of affection even in inconsequential moments.
When she’s gone
A silence in place of wistful songs of love.
No more care in moments of need.
An absence of knowing she will be there, always, but then not
there.
When she’s gone
A longing for words that admonished when things went wrong,
and yet its demand required.
A hole of improvement to be filled, but left undone.
When she’s gone
No pride of her dance and woven skills.
The joy of accomplishment left behind, as costumes hang
lifeless, and towels and scarves lay hidden in drawers, no longer
given.
When she’s gone
No feeling of wanting, of sexual yearn.
A reassurance of manhood, as this figure waned.
Her body still haunting after years of toil and age.
When she’s gone
A lack of anticipation for things to come.
No crazy impulses to thrill the hour.
A day at the ocean, now only nostalgic as waves wash over the
the memories of the water sign that was her.
When she’s gone
A hush reigns where voices rang out in congenial times.
Her gregariousness no longer dampening my loneliness.
She was best for me in many ways.
Now I am left once again on my own, to muse and remember, for
she is gone.
Alas Love
She was complicated—an enigma
Yet, I loved being lost in the labyrinth
of her being
She was a mystery—a contradiction
but, I reveled in the dissonance
of her dance
She was contrary—anti everything
However, I was proud of her taking
her stands.
She was sensual—erotic
And I laid my libido bare for her.
She was mysterious—a riddle
And I willingly followed all of
her clues.
She was magic—a clever trickster
and I foolishly fell under
her spell
She was a vagabond—a wanderer
Abandoned, I now stand alone with only her
story to tell.
Fat Jack
Jack Sprat ate no fat, and I should do the same.
Alas, I lust as lions eye the bearded gnu on plain.
A true carnivore am I. Order rare and fresh at bistro Jeaunty,
Slicing thick or thin, no matter, scales will never haunt me.
I yearn for those crackling chicharrones,
I’d even dice them with macaronis.
Ham for this Christmas? I plead for more,
My Jewish spouse, responds in horror.
No no. she screams, as it is trayf.
Then pastrami, I say, for it is safe.
There’s more to lean than meats the eye.
A dollop of fat in mince meat pie.
No sating my taste for adipose tissue.
to hell with calories, they’re not my issue.
So, here I sit in banquet’s scene,
knives at ready, well honed and keen.
A roast afore me all marbled and mean.
I’m ready to lick that platter clean.
Fica/Fico
Succulent fruit of ebon sheath, more alluring than Eden’s own
temptation.
Plucked when size matters, spewing it’s sticky milk; oozing,
dripping, clinging.
Within it’s dark shroud lay a hidden blush of pink delight. Spread
by gentle fingers, a soft, moist gel of suspended seed ready to
be sampled, licked, sucked.
A taste of strawberry jam, sweet and sticky on the tongue. A tip
slowly lapping up forbidden flesh, sensing it’s texture, viscous,
gelatinous, viscid.
An orgasmic release of gustation, requiring reflection, while
savoring the next moment of oral satisfaction, pleasure,
fulfillment.
Fig, your broad lobed leaf indeed, need cover thy shameful fruit.
Varanasi
What do people mean by “exotic” in travel? A term influenced by personal preference and
experience, exotic may have a different meaning for someone never having left their home
town, than from someone who has wandered the globe. Merriam Webster offers four
explanations for the word, with only one that would pertain to travel; strikingly, excitingly, or
mysteriously different or unusual. I would vow that Varanasi, India would certainly qualify for
such a definition, by even the most accomplished world traveler.
Varanasi, a sacred place, where Hindus get a leg up on karma, provides them with a back door to nirvana. If one dies in Varanasi, the atman, or soul attains moksha, a release from
incarnation. Thousands travel to this final leg of existence to liberate themselves, and
become one with Brahman.
On the latter end of a circle tour of India, I arrived in Varanasi. I wandered the back streets— a maze of narrow lanes between high walls washed with ocher, indigo and red oxide. Brightly colored saris and scarves draped store fronts, and gift shops glittered with gold and gem studded jewelry. I was glad I brought a good size tote bag to hold my treasures, for hundreds of shops offered a plethora of goods ranging from the erotic to the mundane.
Determined looking women in kurtis and saris, brushed by me, and aged men in white linen, gathered in tea shops. I hopscotched my way around clods of fresh and dried dung, remnants of holy beasts left to roam on their own. When I encountered one or more cattle blocking my way, a good swat on the flank got them moving. Occasionally, I came across a funeral procession, where bearers carried bodies, shrouded in colorful linens, upon stretchers to their cremation site. A single family member, carrying an urn, accompanied them, making sure of proper care for the deceased. The air filled with the aromas of jasmine incense and garam masala, eventually enticing me into a local food establishment for some savory chicken tikka masala, which I washed down with a cup of chai tea.
After I explored the labyrinth of back alleys that made up the heart of the city, I wandered
through passages headed east, eventually breaking through the cool, dense shaded darkness of the ancient urban environment. I shielded my eyes from the glaring sun, as I stepped out onto the broad ghats (steps) running down to and along the banks of the Ganges.
Atop the vast stairways, ancient temples and commercial buildings stood overlooking the
Ganges Valley. Above the buildings loomed numerous shikara or temple spires gilded in gold
or painted in bright colors. Hundreds of men and women gathered at the bottom of the ghats, purifying their souls, as they bathed in the holy waters. At various times of the day, ritualized ceremonies took place at platforms irregularly placed along the steps, and cremations occurred on a daily basis. The entire facade of the city flanking the river appeared other worldly, particularly in the early morning mist. Yet, it was at night when Varanasi became its most exotic, with the culmination of Ganga Aarti, the ritual paying homage to the River Ganges.
I rented a boat with an oarsman, who took me out on the river about an hour before sundown.
Once moored, the boat aligned with the current, allowing me a full view of the holy city, from
the bottom of the ghats up to the temple facades and the tall spires. As the sun began to set
and darkness descended over the city, various sources of fire began to move about the ghats. The figures of white robed priests, and funeral entourages became visible in the flickering of torchlights, casting moving shadows up and across the stairs and on the walls of the buildings.
Ignited cow dung and ghee fueled fires that slowly rose form the Pyres of previously stacked
wood, as Jiva (humans) were given Antyesti, their last rites.
At the Dashashwamedh ghat, a long wide concrete platform sat within the middle of the stairs.
Across the front of it stood a high metal frame, composed of eight arches, topped with
umbrellas, their exposed ribs outlined with tiny lights. Bright flood lights shown down upon
the stage, giving a clear view of the activities that took place below. Priests gathered, and lit
large brass candelabras, and urns filled with incense, which they held aloft in their hands, as
they began to dance to a cacophony of ringing bells, the rhythm of tabla, and the deep
vocalization of chants.
Movement in the murky water suddenly caught my eye. A naked body bobbed past the boat. It was the carcass of a deceased monk, who by custom, was not cremated, but weighted and placed in the river, his tethers having come loose. Clouds of smoke from various sources of fire set about the stage, enhanced the supernatural atmosphere of the evening. I became transfixed by it all. It was as if Yama, the God of death, had prematurely selected me. But unready, I remained in a nether world of fire and water between the earth and the land of the Gods.
Early the next morning I went back out onto the river, accompanied by a young priest. When
dawn broke, he began a low resonant chant to the god of light. As I faced east, daylight slowly spread out across the sky. Turning west, I watched the city begin to glow in the bright amber light of the morning sun. Wisps of smoke rose from the remnants of the previous night’s pyres, as men poked through ashes, and swept up the detritus of men’s souls. A trickle of Hindus began to clamor down the ghats towards the Ganges. Within a short time, the steps were covered with a multitude of people, all seeking to bathe away their sins.
Unique in the world for its culture, architecture and etherial ambiance, Varanasi provided me
with a once-in-a-lifetime travel experience. For those of you seasoned, and unseasoned
travelers seeking out that striking, exciting, or mysterious and unusual travel adventure,
Varanasi may just be your Nirvana.
you won’t hear a friend out of me. the earth is flat.
Summer ends. You buy a bag of carrots. You take the bag of carrots home. You open a bag of carrots..
‘Hey, is anyone one in there?’
Nothing. Nothing n the bag of carrots but the quietness of carrots.
You ask again but louder.
easter hymnal
how to poison eggs:
pacific ocean. joaquin phoenix. tulips. rimbaud. fish. dead editors. birds of sudan. soldiers playing with beetles. when they make a movie about you, you disappear. baking competitions. a river with no name. things that bother you. alphabet spaghetti. the sound of an approaching train. rivers that begin with the letter q. kurt cobain’s last dream. too long in the sun. mary magdalene’s 1991 donruss rookie card. jay feathers. virtue signaling. cool breeze. napoli. scuffed knees. paint factory. street signs facing the wrong way.
you googled banana bread recipe
and now it is baseball season again.
your hair is still your hair.
you trimmed it yesterday.
but it is still yours.
like the banana bread you baked yesterday.
the snow has started to shift.
and the roads are wet from melting ice
not rain
you found the recipe
after you googled banana bread recipe
and now it is baseball season again.
A Dying Angel Timing is insufferable puppetry. Her cellular transmogrification in Tron stars and winding chutes of richoceting snowfall in hourglasses of disco moons and drooling easels, Soaked with the spider’s mandala. The filigree’s weathervane neon above a deserted cemetery-these are lattice, roomy and singes Rembrandt black and green from one flipping coordinate In a symphonic magnetite trance, her mandala’s vegetating jingo code under the duneflower’s tongue t h e s o l e s e n s a t e s p l e n d o r t h e p l a s m a d e w’s t o u c h in a crisp noon That film in the desert with her at a distance, broken in clown makeup these mirrored digital sifts reflect back a mis en abyme angle, cracked in lunar symmetry. The crude moon’s communion jackal pale, sphinx eyed mercurial black spinning a chrome silhouette cinching Time’s ether gases these cufflink reveries, green stones, the glass porch angels, cross legged on the choral villas The straw sun sounding ; the arrival, the moving yard sale her reflection the bought mirror’s whole The cube dreamt porch shingles splinter and wet these diamond tattoo tears of a djinn belly dancer, her stare the mosaic of how voodoo suffer in these pixie sandstorms in leveled chambers of oceanic catcalls These free digits and running in that hushed, aromatic shade Her rolling eyes green and yellow planetary eyes, narcotic stars in dust, transit as Grecian peaches centering in a dizzy star scab Her voice a score a planisphere between shredded Euclidean angel tongue The smoked mirror’s unsung The fractal singing sand dunes Krenek’s flute guns I dreamt I traced you Your simile a head in the Magic 8 ball On the alien bouquet of rose water UV shade On crumpled silkscreens, a faded Japanese smile Eyes cinders in the windmills of diadem fortunes The crypts of serrated light tombs Insomnia moons Rotten marquee lights spilling The pegged lights lit like Judy Garland’s black primrose trail from her lap She is chewing her movie jewels in revolving chambers of yoga silk Her yard line a ghost factory An echo and Hindu arms winding Her hair gone up in ringlets seaweed silk of combed astral smoke Sounding in a black box, Sky marble and glass
John Thomas Allen is from New York. His latest book entitled Lumière was published by NightBallet Press in 2014. His poems have appeared in Veil: a Journal of Dark Musings, Arsenic Lobster Magazine, Sulfur, Mad Verse, The Cimarron Review, etc., and he has a story in the anthology titled Narrow Doors in Wide Green Fields edited by R.W. Spryszak. In 2019, he won James Tate Prize for his chapbook entitled Rolling in the Third Eye, which was subsequently published by SurVision Books in 2020
chronicles
some people fall apart alone in their rooms
with a bottle of rum and a photograph
while others looking for coins in their pockets
as people begin to pile up behind them
and the bus driver’s face
twists slowly into a smeared painting
of boredom and rage.
some people fall apart looking out the window
and scraping the bottom of a can of tuna.
sorrow isn’t blue.
sorrow is the orange late afternoon sun
and the warm breeze of dusk
in 1978, in 1982, in 1999, in 2008,
in a yesterday that left us all behind
a long time ago.
mental patient
in the hotel of my mind,
every hallway is covered in missed-opportunity doors,
and in every turn there’s a shadow of unsolicited pain
creeping from its splintered walls.
I am a vagabond in my own home
unsuccessfully trying to smash open doors to the past,
running up and down broken stairs
while some cosmic creature watches from the outside,
and places a new shadow in the next hall.
11/15/2020
somber tones
for my drought-stricken heart,
40 days away from
Christmas,
I think I smelled my childhood
for a second there,
but it went away with Lima’s
lung-breaking twilight smog.
I need to go out for cigarettes,
I need to go out for wine.
I need to go out for the sake of going out.
something is telling me
tonight I might need to reach
inside the back of my head,
speak again
to the angels from the past,
and see
if we can finally
come to an agreement.
sooner or later,
one of us will have to be
let go.
ripped apart by silence
these quiet nights are nails
being pushed down through my temple
by the hands of loneliness:
friday is again just friday,
tuesday is again just tuesday,
christmas is coming soon,
new year is coming soon,
she is not.
in these quiet nights:
I need the factories to roar, every dog to bark,
every cat to hiss.
I need window-breaking winds,
every human to scream, plates & glasses
smashing against the floor.
I need an epicenter in my bedroom.
in these quiet nights:
I need to silence the sound of trickling water—
the sound of the shower being shut off
as she steps out of it
in someone else’s bathroom.
demon
the first sting would set the whole room on fire
and make everything come alive at once;
and if
the chairs
the doors
the shoes
the clothes
the lightbulb
the curtains
the windows
the walls
had a mouth,
they would all have screamed at once
as I tore myself to pieces, dead-eyed and silent,
searching under my skin for the sleeping newborn
in his mother’s arms, sometime in 1996.
Giovanni Mangiante is a poet from Lima, Peru. He has work published in Newington Blue Press, Rusty Truck, The Daily Drunk, Anti-Heroin Chic, Heroin Love Songs, Rat’s Ass Review, Three Rooms Press, and more. He has upcoming poems in The Piker Press. In writing, he found a way to cope with BPD.