POETRY
effigy
i
do not want
my image
spray painted
a hundred feet high
on the brick wall
of a tenement
in memoriam
another
cautionary tale
or veiled threat?
i
do not want
a tshirt
with my last words
emblazoned
across the chest
another sacrifice
to the unsatiated
demigods of hatred
i
do not want
a moment of silence
to remember me
a gesture as empty
as the thoughts and prayers
of mesmerized sycophants
and counterfeit
saints
i
do not want
the people
i love
grasping
for a way
to make sense
of the madness
of wannabe kings
and paupers
i
want
to live
gerald l. coleman
friday 29th may, 2020
the destroyer of worlds
(for the loaners of books)
i will not
loan my books
to the goddess
Kali said
i will devour
them
with a gleam
of delight
in her eyes
her six arms
outstretched
the destroyer said
she would take them
as tribute
but they would not return
whole
she said
she would peel back
their skin
and
with many-fingered glee
crack
their spines
sucking out
their marrow
with a coffee stirrer
standing astride the world
with
the remains of bound pages
in her tantric hands
stained
battered
emaciated
the Black Goddess of Dakshineswar
the destroyer of worlds
said
she would leave them
in her wake
like broken ships
scattered along a sanskrit shore
the Slayer of Raktabija
drunk
on the blood of verses
with paragraphs
dripping
from her fangs
dances among the corpses
of tattered tomes
she does not promise
resurrection
to those who worship
at her temple
only a kind
of reincarnation
a pity induced restitution
wrapped in infatuation
for the loss
of loved ones
so while
i love those
who love words
who love the taste of them
who love how they smell in the morning
i cannot
loan the goddess
my books
Kali said
i will devour them
gerald l. coleman
jan. 28, 2013
bless your heart
i don't remember
where i heard it
first
it was just
in the air
like please, thank you
and ma'am
it's that tart
piece of lemon
floating on a
white frosty layer
of glaze
in the sweet ice tea
it's that extra inch
of meringue
on the brown
sugar pie
it was the big smile
wrapped around
a cruel lie
you see, down here
where the ale eight is cold
and the a la mode is warm
where cole slaw
and baked beans
on the side
of fried catfish
is the law
we don't scream
kiss my ass
we like to pour molasses
on our consternation
lap it up
with a biscuit
nobody does it better
than a saccharine
sanguine sara
a how do you do
sally mae, anna bell
patricia faye or abbie gail
with her gum poppin
and her hips rockin
to the side
with a manicured hand
perched
just so
on a hip
curved like
a granny smith
apple
you see, down this way
where the grass
is blue
between the corn bread
and the corn puddin
with homemade rolls
and collard greens
chased down with
five
berry
pie
we don't holla
dumb motherfucker or
take the lord's name
in vain
we like to spread butter
all over our dissatisfaction
eat it toasted
maybe with a little
strawberry preserve
so listen close
or you might mistake
the smile
for a grin
or the curse
for a blessing
because
down here
where the whisky
is bourbon
and the koolaid
is diabetes sweet
we don't yell
fuck you
we like to smother it
and cover it
with gravy
until it's running
over the sides
down here
we smile
we wave
and say
bless your heart
gerald l. coleman
may 2, 2016