Tallon Fassi

…Send each of your words

like a last letter before execution,

a call carved on a prison wall.

you have no right to lie…

- Blaga Dimitrova, “Ars Poetca”

 

Think of your poem as a beacon.

Shine one word at a time

westward where licorice dolphins

play tag with ships and coral reefs

shimmer under surf.

Growing brighter toward

the oncoming night, let your beam

take note of all the dangers.

With the certainty of being heard

send each of your words.

 

Think of yourself as a keeper

surrounded by water,

watching strands of seaweed pearls

glistening under your searchlight.

Look hard at the creatures that swim,

cling to rocks, float in the ocean;

tomorrow they could be gone.

Make your every image live

for the coming generations

like a last letter before execution.

 

If we are headed for destruction

the sea would hold to the last.

Can you envision the poison?

Every city a landscape of rubble,

every forest smoldering ash.

Then imagine the whole

ocean oil-choked and stagnant,

pelicans shrouded in scum.

Speak!

Make the grief in your soul

a call carved on a prison wall.

 

Shine the beam of your lantern

straight to the core.

Tell it clean – no time to revise;

how the salt marsh breeds life,

how sea urchins pulse,

how a coral reef lives and dies.

If execution looms in the shallows,

record your vision of “now,”

you are posterity’s scribe.

You have no right to lie.

 

 

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Pulling at me,

crimson incubus of pleasure

filling hollows childhood left.

Smiles don’t clean up the mess,

beer bottles, needles and unrest.

Layers of lies webbed in your eyes while

vowing to be where you’ve never been.

Whole or half, fractional math.

You are the rust on my tin.

I don’t have heart strings

within.

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Darling the issue at present

is illuminating a purpose.

 

Respect is bare balls minimum,

Now baby,

who do you think your fooling?

 

 

The tears of a clown and

all that sambuca

oh honey child,

you will drowned.

 

 

 

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Glittering vastness of stardusk

achors the core of us.

Looking at you

leads me to drinking

to bleed out the thinking

which was creepin.

Your tropical heat,

a corset I won’t loosen.

Tell me your spy plans

aren’t translucent.

 

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I stick out my tongue to see her mood,

tasting the weather she has brewed.

The sound of ocean sucking

pebbled stone over tidal breathe.

Lost in the burning iris of god,

Bees make homes in my rib cage.

This poem is built on mysticism and cinnamon.  

 

 

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Nihility is ubiquitous

thus genesis confounds.

Scintillating titillation

aquired by a donnish

enigmatic sleuth.

The authenticity of

ambient inklings.

Whimsical tokens of

globetrotting gallimaufry.

Thalassic baptism

resuscitates credence.

Silence settles situations

while mellifluous

apparitions of erstwhile

float on.

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