I, Eye (June poem and audio)

I Eye–audio

                    I, Eye

certainly
there is some other way of naming your attraction
some other ways
of counting out the names that I have given to your beauty

some simple method of calculating the hours spent remembering

all the joy
made possible      simply and wonderfully by looking upon you

and knowing  that
no other person or thing or moment on this old Earth
is ever going to bring me such a wonderful aching
until it returns   comes back around     knocks…enters…home

so,
tell me again how I first came to be in your eyes

dancing my old bones and flesh thru the sunset rivers of your stare
holding your browned, honey glazed look upon me
and being swallowed into your pupils   as a precious light

just      once      more
say my name   without opening your mouth
without parting your lips     without any sounds  at all
like you do on your pictures
taken from above your head    from your camera’s phone

selfish selfies

with the whole world wanting to be part of such a moment
men and women     themselves  watching for their turn in your eyes
willing to settle for a moment    of you   thru a lens
wanting silent credit for capturing all of what you want    just me to see

and  moments later     there you are

the distance    miles of roads   acres of grass and river waters
steps and tip-toed inches   erased with a button’s push

and you

your eyes so brilliant and bright and beckoning me into that flash moment
your silliness     your awakening into morning light    your muscle work
spilling out from my phone
sighted   suddenly    like lonely sailors must have seen Mermaids

missing home      watching  dark water       a noise
the  glass eye  raised to see         whatever could it be

Captain, my Captain…oh, my soul…”

Jas. Mardis  (06/ 2015)
(4nomi/)

Jas. Mardis is a 2014 inductee to The Texas Literary Hall of Fame and Editor of KenteCloth: Southwest Voices of the African Diaspora, UNT Press

These Pictures are Lying Again (poem w/audio)

Migratory worker on the Norfolk-Cape Charles Ferry, writing a postcard home to his parents

AUDIO: These Pictures Are Lying Again

These Pictures are Lying Again

there are pictures from today   a year ago
that will soon be from two     three    ten years ago
with your smile    still     hungrily for me
your long, sinewy arms   still wanting me    within
your eyes   gone soft and renewed with our found fondness
with each other’s touch and voice
and overnight laughters   early morning pleasures

pictures
racing    like rainwater   over fertile ground  and opening seeds
licking  over landscapes  like gardens and Edens    revealed anew
like juices   bursting in mouthfuls of first  bitten   forbidden  fruits

and I know now
as I will in two    three    ten years to come
that there is forever a weakness   down deep in my soul
for the want and fever and fresh joy of your face
for the building up “yes”   from the year of these pictures
for the measure of haunting regard    that  pulses my remembrance
in this string of found   almost postcards
undispatched   from a folder on my phone
and   are so much more ether and imagination   than photographs
—dare I say–of old

and so, much like the year that is no longer    this year,

what I hold in my hand is   in addition to not being you
not even a photograph  of you

not even the same exposed four-by-six inches of paper
that would have filled a space in time on this earth   as did we
not hardly   the erasable   or torn  terrible kind of thing to be stuck
in a proper album    beneath a coffee table    yellowing in the glue
fading behind the noisy, slipping-off sheets of shiny covers

even the existence of these digital ideas   shames my memory
of what is true of your time in my desire
of what is true in the remembrances of my narrative of us:

did you ever kiss me against a large oak with bark as thick as both our fingers?
was I ever undressed   and asleep  in the light of an April Sunday morning?
do you still have the sticky patch above your right breast  from the hospital tape?

can you still taste  the sweet icing from your god daughter’s wedding cake…
did the oily stain that it left on your favorite red dress   ever come out?

is your mouth  still, impossibly beautiful
does it still want to say  my name    from  one, two…

soon to be    ten years ago

Jas Mardis  (06/2015)
(4yat)

Jas. Mardis is a 2014 inductee to the Texas Literary Hall of Fame and Editor of KenteCloth: Southwest Voices of the African Diaspora (UNT Press)
–Please include proper copyright when sharing the poems from this blog–

Fit ( un poema )

girlie show

         Fit ( un poema )
para mis visitantes españoles

¿Cómo debemos decir
a nuestros cuerpos
caber:

¿Es este un día para desatar
lenguas musculosos -up
para montar , labios
humedecidos curiosos en
nuestras olas y rápidos

una noche para los dientes
húmedos
presionado en vientres tensos y
temblorosos

una hora de pulgares rodeando
la pasta como la caverna de
ombligos
o simplemente minutos con
la punta de los dedos tentadores
las nucas de cuellos

un monumento a querer
paseos en nuestra
conversación como
desenfrenada
pero , cubierto sementales

¿cómo debo tocarte
con su corazón latiendo
tan parecido a una canción
con su manta caída

tan lentamente desde
los hombros sudoríparas
endulzadas

¿cómo debe tocarme
cuando yo ya estoy
tan conocido tristemente   a pedir

Jas. Mardis

Thank you for reading me Brazil, Portugal and Spain!

What Passes for Flesh (w/audio)

What Passes For Flesh  (audio)

What Passes for Flesh
for C. Jacnal

When one has lived a long time alone
there comes an inevitable time of touch
that belies every moment
and movement
and measure of all the unquenched thirsts
from way down deep inside

It is greater than
what the opening mouth discovers at first breath
greater than what the whip and pull of the suckling tongue knows will come down
greater than what reprises the yell of conception allowing life itself to begin

First touch
is like an unexpected gust, come fully into breeze, come graciously
and racingly into a full bite of the body
through and over and amongst every strand
of dormant, reflective follicle of hair
that names
the internal dotting and prickly rise along the arm
hidden up the run of a long, warm sleeve

To have again
that wonderful reaching out hand for just your face
for just your muscled rising and falling breast
for just your sweat and anticipation-laced majesty
long bent back into itself
long unspent across a sailed sea of self-scented linens and nights

To know again
for every unsuspected new first time
that a response is required of your mouth
that there is no room for retreat in the body’s assailed breakwater

unlock the door
unspeak the warning
unleash the panting hounds of that ready desire

unfurl the cascading warmth
untie the bulbous mooring
unwrap and lay bare every blameless shame of your wanting

When one has lived a long time alone
what passes for flesh
is a cajole a swaying of what is known to the soul
as honest and goodness and desirous truest needing assurance
undulating purest and dearest cause for the blood to rise throughout
and abundantly overlap all that the mind has come to believe
is just

skin

    Jas. Mardis   6/2015 (4awim)

photo credit: Barranquitas (vicinity), Puerto Rico. Hands of an old woman working in a tobacco field    fsa 8c29492 http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/fsa.8c29492