LIVES ON FIRE

LA is a forest of lives

now feeding carnivorous flames,

flames that cremate neighborhoods, and grow.

It’s a painful choice—stay, spray, and pray?

Or run for your life–

taking only kids, pets and meds?

What about looters? Water damage?

Grandpa’s first editions?

How can we live without heaped-up trivia

that tells us who we are?

Then add critics.

You’re living in a desert, dummy.

Now you want bail-out?

Trump says the fire is California’s fault, anyway.

As LA incinerates,

the face of homelessness changes.

It’s no longer the curse of drugs and crazies.

With homes, jobs, and banks in ashes,

the homeless are now doctors, teachers, plumbers,

people who lived charmed lives—

lives eaten up by equal-opportunity flames,

flames that treat everyone alike;

flames that leave everyone alike

bereft, betrayed, and defeated.

Palisades, Eaton and Hurst are war zones:

drought and dense construction

in no-holds-barred battle with

consequences.

Infernos always win.

         

“Nothing has remained”

Everything has gone

The homes, the souls and feelings.

Our joyful summer became a frightening winter

With its long-darked and terrifying nights.

The ghost of death eradicated our hearts

And stole our souls.

Our beautiful spring became a lifeless autumn

Our children fall Like the leaves of the green trees,

So quietly with the breeze of death.

Their souls fly

As the hovering and glamorous butterflies

Lost in the vast universe

And increase the number 

Of the shining stars.

Our feelings turned into a dry valley

And a burden desert

They’re frozen as an ice bar.

We don’t feel the loss 

As it’s numerous 

And no feelings to joy 

We’re still alive 

But nothing has remained.

Affective Seasonal Disorder Three Times

1-

Deer at first light

wreathed in mist

transforming to real

objects

escaping dream

2-

Sunlight spreads

light on still pond

surface

3-

The pattern a setting

sun makes on clouds

before they disappear

Affective Seasonal Disorders Five Times

1-

Ground fog makes

headstones out of

black rocks;

silent tides recede

2-

Thick night fog

swallows street lights;

the moon

3-

Blue Heron in sunset

afterglow at full moon

rising

first flowers on trees

4-

Early first ice withers

last cling of leaves-

the grass tingles

5-

War  memorial statue

in Central Park-

icicles on sculpted

guns

bayonets

Affective Seasonal Disorders Six Times

1-

Dawn without light.

intense fog, then

a light rain.

Slowly the sun

clarifies.

2-

Gray haze over

bay. Fragments

of light breaking

through-

almost dawn

3-

Bike trail in Winter.

Frozen ruts where

the tires go.

4-

Free of ice pond.

Still water reflects

mid-day sun.

5-

Clear night-a full

moon creates shadows

6-

After noon white out,

wind-blown drifts,

sideways snow,

white on white

Summer Dreams Four Times

1-

Hottest night of Summer.

A fan in every window.

Who let the skunks out?

2-

Pieces of blue sky

between low black clouds.

Sunlight trying to break

through

3-

Fractured light filtered

through stained glass

window

Broken prisms

on hard wood floor

4-

Sunset over the ocean-

a study in scarlet

Lunar Caustics Three Times

1-

Full moon eclipse.

Prophets say:

“The end is near!”

For now, a thing

of beauty.

2-

A circle of fire

surrounds the moon-

a dream with red

objects in it.

3-

Falling stars leave

scars of light

across the night sky

Mostly Crows Three Times

1-

Crows in Winter sky:

black wings furled

against gray clouds-

ice chips for eyes.

2-

Birds nesting in

eaves-wasps

live there too.

3-

“Do crows dream?”

Zen poet responds,

“who cares?”

Gordon Lish, The Selected Stories of Gordon Lish (“How To Write a Poem”)

I tell you, I am no more of a sucker for this thing of poetry than the next fellow is. I mean, I can take it or leave it—a certain stewarded pressure, some modulated pissing and moaning… But once in a blue moon I have in hand a poem whose small unfolding holds me to its period. It needn’t be any great shakes, such a poem. I don’t care two pins for what its quality is. Christ, no— literature’s not what I look to poetry for.       Fear is.       You know— like the fear of nothing there.

That old zenophobic fear sucks       PoWorld has no answer for it       Jaysus Mega-

Church of CanPo, duh       Take it or leave it       Pissing in the wind       Wind dript

in your face       Faced with a stiff lit-lite riff       Never shakes out       That’s it,

there —       39 shades of night noise behind your eyes       Once all the other water-

marks float       Revved up 71 percent       Lil’ reverse press seventeener     

 Modulate a miss to a mess       Unfolding blue-tinged moan       Infamy’s no thing in

your eternal hand       A steward’s needles & pins       Next you’re a sucker for

anything else, period.       Poet, you deserve to be voided

Jean-Patrick Manchette, Fatale (opening line; trans, Donald Nicholson-Smith)

The hunters were six in number, men mostly fifty or older, but also two younger ones with sarcastic expressions.

Kill me now, or later?

Braggin’ & raggin’ in the gym

or in the field …

oh ’em dude-bros         oink —

“Porked a dozen B’s just las’ weekend”

She is five foot six

Well bölls me over, trolls

by the numbers, please —

Yep, fifty-six is all on relation•shits    

(ships & giggles, hips & wiggles)

Coexistence is coming up elevenses, squatter

“Your Body, My Choice,” say 4chan

Um-fictional         they jes’ voted last week

con•verted the ever tiring Big O         45’s

now 47  (hoho) —       real teamwork!

Orangutan now on Roids, boyz

Michel Houellebecq, Serotonin (opening line; trans, Shaun Whiteside)

It’s a small, white, scored oval tablet.

Small is good, white is forever throwing shade

(& that’s just not clicket, bluddah)

Like someone scored a century at Lord’s

or a lid behind the library

(We’ve hit numero 100% completion, hon!)

Makes us all happy together

singularly…   even pseudonymously

You never really remember which…

Pls don’t re-uptake this tab inhibitor

let it go, might just be our last

over at the oval

Stephen Bett is a widely and internationally published Canadian poet with 26 books in print from BlazeVOX, Chax, Spuyten Duyvil, Ekstasis Editions, Thistledown Press, & others. His personal papers are archived in the “Contemporary Literature Collection” at Simon Fraser University. His website is stephenbett.com

Thoughts from a Quiet Day in Solitude

“We do not learn from experiences; we learn from reflecting on experiences.”—John Dewey 

As I walked along the

        Cracked city sidewalk

A fall leaf fell before my feet

My eyes followed it to its fall from grace

I bent over picked it up and held it to my nose

                    Just then the exhausts of car engines rose

I felt a pang within than sang a voiceless song

                                          Replete with frustration

I closed my eyes and breathed wishing a rush of wind

                             Would sway my fragmentation

Wishing the backdrops in the back of my head were

Orange sunsets and undulating silhouetted mountains

                                                                      and soaring creatures….

But sounds of car horns opened my eyes and

                                      And an android with a cell phone

Pounded into me

Ignorant of the flamboyant fall leaves flirting with alacrity

I know, I know….

Alluding to ANYONE as anything other than a “human being”

Is reductive and divisive,

But I must NOT dissemble in moments when “truth” can heal the victimizer

                                                             And unite a cooperative of victims

I read a decisively severe literary shellacking that wreaked havoc on

The paradoxical and philosophical and inhumane ambiguities

Protruding from our bungling orifices

Why must we identify with

     How we look

     What’s between our thighs

       Who we sleep with

 What we do and

              How much we do it for?

Less you want to create the illusion of knowing anyone

If you know where they come from,

This tells you nothing of their humanity

 It’s time for someone to address the mundanity in questions like

“Where are you from, what do you do, where’d you go to school?”

All nonsense questions to create the illusion of a meaningful conversation

when I’d much rather talk about my study of the pragmatic stoics like

Hellenistic philosopher and founder of the Stoic school of philosophy Zeno of Citium or

Epictetus another Stoic philosopher best known for his works

The Enchiridion (a handbook I possess in my library actually) and his Discourses,

Both foundational works in Stoic philosophy, etc… His most famous quote was:

“It is impossible for a man to learn what he thinks he already knows”

Is that you? Is that me? Is that we?!

Broom away the dirt from your soul to reveal what you probably “think” you knew all along…

How can giants sometimes speak so gently amidst the grandest calamities?

When thoracic arteries with sublime complexities sees humdrum atrocities

     in that moment of clarity

see the grandeur around you

                             And surrender to its glory

J’aime mes livres (I love my books) for they are the map to my soul

Books that I wrote myself for posterity

That my literary art would serve as an

Edification to usher the future to find and know me

For what I was and will forever be in infinity…

Disease of the spirit is when you fail to recognize

                                      Your own growth

Entombed in barking and carping at your failures

You fail to listen to gentle songs of wisdom

From the herds of insanity!

There will come soft rains

Pure and clean as a bucolic silver spring

To wash away the pain

There will come soft rains

Attired in metallic grey and

Be it be a cloudy day,

Brings in the rainbow

To keep the clouds at bay

There will come soft rains,

Run naked and carefree in the torrent

Rediscover forgotten moments of juvenility

Wash away those strains of merging maturity

There will come soft rains

Like a melodic refrain

As I board the regressive train

Back to a place where

Pain no longer reigns

Remember that surrender is

The key to letting go

Remember that surrender is

       The key to personal freedom

Remember that surrender is

 The key to personal power

I surrender

                        Jousting childhood memories

I surrender

                        Pungent adulthood discrepancies

I surrender

                        Mounting life adversities

I surrender to the divine

            All those who are maligned

May they (and I) find the peace and serenity

                        Of the pious and the holy…

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”   & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming , Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious  publications such as Spirit of Change Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.

A dead umbrella 

“Be like your father” 

The inimitable pronunciation would pour into ears 

burning lava 

smoky

I have never seen lava, but I swear 

there was nothing less warm than lava in those words. 

Still, one day, with my all patience 

when I myself became 

a father 

When I saw that from inside each sound “father” comes out 

an umbrella 

or an ‘old umbrella’ 

whose cloth is decorated with two and a half hundred holes 

through each hole comes down a seed of a new universe 

a seed is a forest 

a forest is a civilization 

and I realized that I too am a tree 

in that forest sprouting like a leaky umbrella 

in some drowsy corner 

I too have to calculate how much shade 

I can give to my child 

or how much winter warmth I can give? 

And when all these credit and debit are washed off 

again I am on the battlefield like a 

dead umbrella 

A wild slogan will fall through all the living or dead holes 

“I will never be like my father!”