He is a weave of silk? I think you mean Satan


ringing in the ears. another
anxious moment disperses itself

in waste like vulturous grains
of sand gone to a hidden register

reporting more hidden light unseen.
the boy’s fingertips become loose

watercolors awash with DNA coded
nightmares. he pulls his slumping

lunchbox from an oak desk without initials
thinking about a freckled face like

an old potato and small fists like
wooden bees. the brown leaves circling the

bus stop are bleached copper by the
sun itching his unlaced sneakers

like dry preying mantises. the
bus arrives grinding steamed metal

fear and porous faces grinning from
the engine’s dirty chrome. the door

closes and all laughter is their own
another opens with splintered fury

as a dated ornament falls to the ground
a woman looks from moist eyelashes

and sees the bus thinking she remembers
how easy it was to be young.

John Thomas Allen



to learn the splines of the massora
we must strike blows against the empire
with our sicknesses and lead plumbing
with our empty wages and cunning
with collapsed highrise sweatshops
with boys and girls and their multiplication by hair
by our heels and discarded wine bottles
filled with the gasoline of comets
by our beds and our forgetfullness
remembered with the accuracy of a stone
within the bondage of travellers
pullulating amnesia
within the embrace of chauffeurs
by the minutes of abandoned dogs
and constellations, and stellations
by the convex abandonment of prisoners
by the gloom of medicines
by the copays of insurrection
by the pricking of gravity
by the accumulation of dead souls in cisterns
by the foul water left behind by mining
by the enjambments of arrested hysterics
by the shouts of impossibility wearing sequins
by the tears of prone men and standing women
and by blows against some empire
struck by children’s new breathing
surrounded by the stares of new sphinxes
stuffed into new cerements
the brine of molten bones drunk down quickly
drunk down and blows to be struck
quickly, before the next episode of freedom airs
quickly, while anger still walks
quickly, while agony can still listen
and quickly, in the lifetime of these agonistes
men and women, both standing now
handling these shards of language

Lee Ballentine, 2013



1 When your sister went away she forget to take her shadow

2 It enters you by the pores of hands and feet

3 Its fine trace filters through your body/pooling in gaps outlining pressures

IV In your lungs it trickles like the shadow of water

V In your eyes it wavers like the shadow of fire

VI In your skin it flutters like the shadow of air

VII In your womb it settles like the shadow of earth

VIII For its map of blackened roads you are the only distance

Adam Francis Cornford



And in an urgent extra mode, I might add:

Laura Ingram Semilian, one of our members, will be shining like the sun on 2710 Broadway, 3rd Floor, New York, NY 10025 in Manhattan on May 27, at Seven O Clock.  http://tallerlatino.org/Events.php#Semilian

Aforesaid translator, author and now singer:

Laura Ingram Semilian, virtue o so

Laura Ingram Semilian, virtue o so


2 thoughts on “He is a weave of silk? I think you mean Satan

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s