Flight 241 Chicago

A barrage full of seagulls
slinking slowly along the snake baked river,
the murky glimmer from below
unable to mirror each one in flight.

Paisley patterned bubbles and algae decorate her swan song voyage
to the landfill.

She is so majestic in her unhurying cadence.

Braided glistening garbage bags flash cobalt and black onyx in the 4pm sun.
Diamondless wedding bands in tarnished triumph - saved from the junkie miner and dumpster divers.

Sooted Abe Lincolns line the olive colored slime of her stomach -
tossed currency and forgotten liberties.

Poem in your Pocket

Indie Feed

"Jabulani"
Evert Eden

I remember fixing the guest room
paris 74
but from the airport you went to a bathhouse
gone for 3 days your lucky whore
you could go to any city
do the nasty very pretty
with one stunning slut after another.
I
should have been the gay brother.
I remember jabulani, which means happiness
the guy you fell in love with.
zulu african.
batman and the joker had a better chance at romance
yet you found your jabulani, happiness happiness!
jabulani got sick.
in the hospital you got the full treatment
you,
you homo, you rat, you plague bearer!
jabulani may be dead in the morning
but
you can't hold his hand or kiss him,
cause you'll get kicked out
he'll get flak
cause you're a man, you're white
he's a man, he's black.

so you thought,"no more rubbers, skin against skin, one with him!"
two coffins in the same grave, with Jabulani, which means happiness.
but you took him home
to learn how a person goes homeless in their own skin
and might manage the vacancy notice of a smile.
two words: thank you.
two more: I'm scared.
then Jabulani's parent arrived from afar,
"Mkozi we've come to take him home to die."
Washing him for the long ride and smiling at you
even though on their side of color divide
they are just as tough on queers as we are.

the next day he passed away
you cried a lake in his father's arms
the home sweet bitter home coming
one white man
in a village black with grief.
they welcomed you with porridge and squashed together
you packed the last stones
and you left thinking "these are my real parents.
they showed me more understanding in 7 days
than my own folks in a lifetime of chaste communiqués."
and back in Johannesburg your heart torn out and stuffed back in full of razor blades.

one afternoon, Jabulani's younger brother jumped out of the blue
"Mkozi, my parents sent me to look after you."
and you knew then they were your parents
You'd found a grace beyond the 10 commandments
a force of family mightier than anything in the so called first fucking world!

now i snap a poem
but what can words do?
in this world of too many pieces and too little clue.

oh brother brother,
sweet little brother,
you walked the walk of another mans shoes,
now cry the blue of all the blues
for Jabulani , Jabulani,
which means happiness.

transcript from the audio indie feed performance poetry #356 3/14/08 - listen and fall in love!

the breakup haircut

you should put your finger in a damn or
smile proudly on the side of a can of paint
with that haircut.

i imagine how it went


the italian woman scrutinizing your locks -
the rungs of the scissors making white circles on the knuckles her thick sausage link fingers as she enclosed your view with a curtain of silken black sheen.

your eyes not peering beyond the void until her crunch-crunch sound freed your face with a
new left side part.

it should made you look thinner
your eyes fuller - more pronounced
your neck long and kissable
and it nearly does.

when you pointed to picture of the model with the blazing purple eye shadow, the Italian woman grabbed the book and looked at the date - 1987 - frowned.

"but you don't have split ends! your long hair is perfect - just a trim."

your middle finger placed over the model's face - tap tap. defiance.

with each layer sliced, the sound of it became more piercing than the weight lifted from your rib cage, still can't get a deep breath.

you notice the Italian woman had tuna for lunch.
She notices the dots of tiny beauty marks forming a little dipper below your earlobe.

in the chair next to you a woman over 30 begs for red hair - "buy a wig" her own hair dresser advises.

"This one! Couldda made a wig with all that hair I just chopped!"

she bends low, hinges on enormous hips, grabs a clump of you and shakes it roughly at your face.

you catch a glimpse of your self in the mirror and half cock a smile.
its just a haircut.

one that says dutch more than ditch.






....

the break up haircut (draft)

you should put your finger in a damn and
save Holland
with that haircut.

yet its silken black sheen
running smoothly with a new left side part
confirm you non-dutch beginnings

it should made you look thinner
your eyes fuller more pronounced
your neck long and kissable
and it nearly does

this is not for the features it enhances, not for the shredding of split ends

but rather to see a photo of yourself years from now and say "that's when i got my new haircut"" and not "that's when the bitch left me"


(splitting up without split ends)

( halfcocked smile new friends flanking each side of you don't notice it's jaded, dont stare at the dots of beauty marks that form a little dipper below your earlobe)

119

the bed stays unmade
its sheets spread wide
draping the floor
its pillows still warmed from her head.
she won't call to say good morning or good night
she won't call to say good bye or hey hey.
and the bed stays unmade
and I'll sleep on the floor
unfit for a queen.

i sat in the back of the class in 5th grade
like a pre-teen janmes dean renagade.

contors

a lady of many angles, wrong angles that writhe and wiggle
you are drawn with a jaggy hand jigging across a page
torn too early in childhood
half of you spilled on the table
the other third : demolished dust cloud of eraser sent scattering to the floor.

and this last bit - this contor drawing
of your face snuggled so close to his.
you could be your mother.

a hand of fate you can't will
to stop tracing over her mistakes;
to color yourself in;
to let some blue or red seep out.

these crazed scribbled contors shaped from mantra
these lines of the palm on paper
are all yours - adulteress and adulterer.