Friday, May 22, 2015

Look at these meters I found! I just think they look neat.

via Instagram

Because the Internet probably needs another picture of a sunset. #nofilter

via Instagram

Sunset as seen from the road.

via Instagram

Dirt and Sweat and Pickaxes.

Usually when I post poems I like begin by posting an apology and explanation (like this one). Normally I go with explaining that most of the stuff on this blog is VERY FIRST DRAFT-Y.

Today though, instead of doing that, I am going to play with a metaphor.

I’ve previously said that good poets (i.e.: not me) are like diamond cutters. Poetry is about making tiny gestures with words and space and the lengths of breaths. They have to consider the clarity, the cut, the color, the setting. Poets will agonize over a single line. A single word. Drive themselves to desperation over a syllable. I admire them a lot.

Obviously though, I ain’t one of them. As a writer, I am more like a busted water main. But if I’m going to learn how to be at least a proficient diamond cutter, then I am going to first need to go mine some diamonds, and remember, a diamond ain’t nothing but a chunk of carbon.

And just remember, there are no diamonds without dirt and sweat and pickaxes.

Brownout Summer.

Brownout Summer

by james bezerra

One San Joaquin Valley

summer of brown outs

we bought

inflatable kiddie pool.

Yellow weed back yard,

chemical-treated blue plastic,

borrowed green hose,

bright clear water.

When thrum of swamp cooler cut out,

and cheese plant next door went quiet,

the swelter indoors was thick.

Someone stole a wooden picnic table.

We put batteries in a radio,

sat outside sweating,

drank Keystone,

took turns in the pool.



by james bezerra

I don’t know why
I couldn’t ever
not want you,
because I wanted
so badly not to.


That Tattoo.

That Tattoo

by james bezerra

I loved you,

but also

– and separately –

your skirts

and that tattoo.

I loved you

as unconditionally as I could,

but I am not an unscarred man.

The skirts though

and your tattoo

I still love without condition.

Thorns of ink across

rising slope

from bottom of ribs down to hip

and the glide of my hand

over dark roses

in your skin.

I loved you

in bed on my right

falling asleep on my arm

your ink side up and

I’d pull slick sheets away

just to see your body

soft in the little light

white in the little light

your back and

my thumb slowly down the

notches of your spine

and your

tattoo like

vines, like veins,

like the outward sign of

something dark within you,

the tattoo

I loved

probably more forgivingly

than I loved you.