[Ethan Leon]: 613.The Wanderings, and other poems

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THE WANDERINGS, AND OTHER POEMS

by

Ethan Leon





Note: A short collection of poems that I never finished, but oh well. They make for an interesting quick read. These are from 2007, when I did a lot of writing. The next one's I upload will probably be called "Phone Call to God", or will probably be re-named.




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HEMORRHAGE IN THE NIGHT


Love a slit, then a slash--
It bleeds, so I press.
And it bleeds

First a blue, then yellow
And a crimson shade that dribbles.
In the Church,

at the altar.
Listen, listen, the whores!--
They confess.

A Saint, a carven idol
Watching me--watching prostitutes.
Nighttime bliss in the alley,

Can’t find my thumbs,
For my hands--
And all the lights above my head

Radar in the sky, blasting symphonies--sweetly
But that cut, it bleeds.
It bleeds, so I press.

Crevice, trench in the skin,
It’s just a Church, so I walked in.
Chanting, not monks but demons

Dark liquid in my glass--
Teaming, churning poison
That I love--to love to hate.

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PROPHECIES


And in death,
I remember Giant’s making prophecies,
And then reciting them to me--
“’--and you who have moved mountains,
And you who have suffered long--
--a hemorrhage in your skull,
For you there shall be no rest
Until the cycle begins anew’”--

And I remember this every time,
I start to climb--the mountains,
Of Abraham, of Moses, of Jesus,
Of Mary, and of Joseph,
And of the Lamb
I remember this every time,
I begin to reach the end of a cliff
That moves out of reach,
Every time I come close to--
Finding its edge

I then remember Heaven, Valhalla,
Summerland and Eden
Each seemed to begin,
Where the other left off--
And I remember all the beggars,
In between the hills, at the edge of the streets
And in the beginning of the mountain range,
Lying on the ground--not cripple--
--but not able,
To stand on their feet
They mumble about tragedy,
And attempt to hold you near--
Their skin, but far from their minds

And then there are the Giant’s,
That aren’t tall, aren’t small
But their mouths are always open--
And they are seers to the Stranger,
To the King, to the Peasant

And behind them come the Things,
That God forgot to name--
Stumbling in awkward brigades
Forever singing “’Always’”
Not as a warning but as a truth,
That the Immortal must ever face--

And when God forgets to name you--
--in the next life, a life of winter
Remember those who have before you
Climbed mountains endlessly,
And remember that when they reach the peak
They will sing two things;
A ballad of the ‘Self’
And a song of ‘Always’--

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SEAGULLS



1

If I were to be your child,
I would make myself unknown but to you
And dance in indigo weavings--
And leave a trail of salt for you to follow
Till you find me again.

2

A coffee cup between my knees--
--Im on the curb again,
My what a beggar I make
When I actually try
Im sure your searching the clouds again--
--dreamer, but you won’t find me there.

3

On the road again, which one? Which one--
--do I take? It’s gotten so confusing since you last left--
--me to find the way
Strawberry fields that look so lonely,
And Im starving but can’t really eat.

Even though the strawberries look lonely today,
And im sure that they would love to have me
I’ll continue down the road until,
I can’t find anything else that grows.

4

I pass by,
Shrubs, still plants even in drought
Still surviving somehow--
And cacti without rain for periods,
During which im sure they thirst
And dream of water.

5

Temptation, in the fruit
Canteens that never fill-
And bread that has sat to long

And at beaches,
Where strangers hand out dimes--
Chips, and other amenities
That I will take only to live on
And find a different way this time--
--in the air--perhaps even over the sea
to you.

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THE HOMELAND


I came back to the land today,
Of the Father, of the Mother, of the Son
I found the flowers blackened,
The grass ashen from the flame
Of my mouth agape;
The homeland was rotting and foul.

I turned around back to the road,
But found it just the same--
as the scene behind.
I would have my memories
Form a patch over my eye,
And a locket in my mind
To keep what was around.

Thirst--the wrenching gut
Of the man on the stake--
--Smiling coldly--teeth gleaming
Into the morning sun--
I come ready.


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THE LOVE TWIST GAME


I left the door unlocked,
Because I like to feel open
I left the window exposed at night--
By my bed--because I could be murdered
It’s so much fun you see,
I have a bruise, a painful tattoo
That proves I know the meaning,
Of “kill the fucking faggot”

Stonewall, Stonewall, a Gay bar by the bay,
They came in through the backdoor--
And held the Police at bay
Come on, come on, lets party,
And have the Parade tomorrow.

Colors, colors, so many colors,
Black and red, and yellow, and violet--
Or Magenta, and Lavender, and Navy--
One man, one woman, or both at once
I play a twisted game with gender,
I just can’t help myself.

Fun, fun, Carnival, Christmas,
Vodka and “I do’s”
‘Why can we be married
Just the same as you?--‘
Asks a Woman and her Wife,
As they stand near the altar.

What a holiday I cant’ celebrate,
Because I don’t hear from you
I wager you’re either there,
Or there where they can’t get to you.
Fine, fine, my little angel,
Here’s Adam, here’s Eve
Take them both at once,
And then think of me.

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THE SONG OF ME


I will jab out this eye,
And steal another to replace it--
I am strong, secure, and permanent.
I am thoughtless and will think of nothing,
But the quest at hand--
To reach the edge of the gate,
To deliverance--

And when I get there--
I will sing all the songs of me,
And anthems of my joy and conquest--
That I can think of the moment--
I embrace the ultimate high.
And sing a song of wartime,
For all the strangers I meet
In the fog of evening--

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THE SONG OF WAR

I have no shield or sword,
Or gun or tank or swastika--
No banner or flag or showcase.
Im just the singing mannequin

I have no bible or psalm,
Or script or television--
Or kiln or microwave or heater
Yet poor am the strongest of all.

You have no eagle or spear,
Or machete or hummer--
You came with a bowl of water--
--and sprinkled it on my tongue.

And you are the strongest of all.
You have no army or crown,
Or temple or memorial or citadel--
Yet you are the strongest of all
And for that shall lead on long.

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THE SONG OF THE BELIEVERS

I will see you in the morning,
At the flagpole--at the cross
I will show you, will tell you--
--of my day.
Will you attend the massacre?--

Open armed, breathing--heavily--
Will you hear the bell?--
Ringing to tell you “noontime”
The townsfolk scream,
“Blood like sweat--
--tears like vodka--oh Lord!--please--
--help me! Help them! Help me!”

I couldn’t listen, I couldn’t speak--
The microphone had gone deaf.
The first battalion of the army of God was spent,
And the battle was not yet begun.

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