fruits and nothings.

Kiyo Murakami
Kiyo Murakami

 

What does

it mean to let

come what may?

 

Formless words

dense with

abstraction

 

dripping with

the tart juices

of something

 

less than love

and greater

than reason

 

shock a tongue

expecting

the tickle

 

of sweet

fruits and

nothings

 

tasted and

whispered

after the

 

world was

asleep

and only

 

the stars

were

watching.

 

Bitter fruits

growing from

the soft petals

 

of decadent words

(with vibrant hues

and sweet aromas

 

that trick the bees

into yielding

poisonous honey)

 

are innocent

carriers of the

impolite pain

 

of sacred words

lightly thrown

into the face

 

of a one who

craves them

like breadcrumbs

 

toward the

eager beak of

a starving pigeon.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

a matter of perpetual creation.

Star Child, by Juliette Crane

 

The carbon of my body

recalls the best of it all:

 

the time before

worry and loss,

the time before

hunger and pain,

the time before

good and evil.

 

The time when

atomic collision

was the long

and short of it.

 

When molecules

that would travel

far and wide

before becoming

you and I

and the skies

and the trees

buddied up

in the belly of an

elemental bakery.

 

A super-massive

pulsating, churning,

bubbling womb.

 

A hostile incubator.

 

Our celestial mother

martyred by iron

so that we

might live as

rearrangements

of her labors,

her reflection

eternally trapped

in the eyes of

those who

know her best,

reminding us

to never ignore

that we are

all born

together.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

the blindness of busy.

1922369_783659418318363_5667144531560021540_n

 

It’s walking

down a road

stunned by

the beauty

only to realize

you’ve driven it

hundreds of times.

 

We miss so much

when we hurry.

 

It’s the golden finch,

the baby mantis,

the fuchsia wildflowers

nestled amongst

thorny weeds,

delicate,

gorgeous,

and hidden from

hurried faces.

 

Rushing past

the loves of our lives

to make the bus,

catch the light,

get to work,

blindly chasing

the empty dream,

finishing gold-plated

in this heated race

toward death,

 

rushing past the love of your life,

 

past walks and drinks,

past hands held shyly,

past nervous lips

meeting beneath

flickering street lamps,

past quiet conversations

draped in dawn’s

blue light,

 

rushing past

what songs

and poems

 

and lives

are made of.

 

Rushing past inspiration,

we are driven by the

constant fear

of slowing down

for long enough

to look it all

in the eyes

and see the truth

that proves

this madness

wrong.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

the quiet push and pull.

10157216_796153827068922_8326897676896274012_n

 

Your weight descends

upon the top of my head,

reaching into mind and brain

with luminous tendrils

of motherly love

and celestial command

in dizzying

orbital pirouettes,

 

a balloon riding

waves of solar wind

barely tethered to

a body or identity,

you push and pull

on our oceans

and minds high

in this early

summer heat,

 

quietly promising

to keep life churning,

keeping us company

without saying or

doing anything

but simply

being yourself,

 

teaching us all

a thing or two

about love.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

abstracts.

Faceless Composition, Lara Jade
Faceless Composition, Lara Jade

I.

 

Alone,

mourning pale yellow light

as velvet plum wine reflects

a vacuum sea of stars

struggling to penetrate

the city’s glare.

 

Without rational passion,

without positive prostitution,

without damaged ears to hear

or bloodshot eyes to read,

 

alone with my

reckless creation,

all around,

all stillness,

all movement

is without.

 

Hands compelled to

write with open honesty

are stunted by caution,

my remora

fattened upon the

volatile words

of a weary brain

as they drip

down through

to fingertips

in a parade

of ink beasts,

vowels and consonants

shaping a strained reality

determined to undermine

the foundation

of these precious

fleeting moments

where there’s still

life to live.

 

This thing on my mind

leaves me stranded

without option,

without power,

without a plausible solution,

giving birth

to coded abstracts,

disguising the truth and

feeding from within,

replacing the me

with the nothing.

 

II.

 

Were I to know unmitigated satisfaction,

I might die in its arms.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

 

Demolition.

Leonora Carrington
Leonora Carrington

 

How often

I wrote your name

in invisible ink

on blind paper

to a deaf audience

in an empty theater

while imagining my skin

with your skin,

my mouth

with your mouth,

my body

with your body

within the walls

of our modest home.

 

Grassy yard,

happy dog,

sweet child,

wily garden

each blooming with life,

 

our patch of passion

and contentment,

secluded seduction,

calming condition

where we share

wine and wishes,

philosophies and prayers,

secrets and dreams,

where we sleep deeply

in each other’s company –

 

and here we are.

 

Close enough to

feel your breath

and all I can smell

are hot lies

and bitter delusions

pouring from

that precious mouth.

 

Far enough to

see your disembodied

hands tearing down

our fragile house

while your mouth

claims to mend it.

 

Piece by crumbling piece

the foundation breaks away

in arid clumps

within your tightening grip,

turning to dust

in unorganized winds

blowing into my

eyes and mouth.

 

Blinded,

suffocating,

stumbling,

reaching out

for your shadow,

you turn

away and

do what’s best

for us all.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

for maya.

Maya Angelou

 

We all have pain.

 

Some more than others.

 

Some people feed

its scraps

to the hungry dogs.

 

Some people take

it to the bank,

stowing it away

in a dusty

safe deposit box,

fading to nothing

upon its key holder’s

fade to nothing.

 

Others fling it

in the face of the

world at large,

an unfortunate fate

for innocents

crossing the paths

of emotional maniacs.

 

Some people

own

their pain.

 

They take it

into their arms

and cradle it

like a newborn,

 

losing sleep

and time

just the same,

 

feeding it from

their well of

inner strength,

nurturing

until it

matures enough

to reason with.

 

Matures enough

to comprehend

how cruel the

world can be.

 

Matures enough to

make peace with.

 

Matures enough

to let go of

like a parent

waving goodbye

over a parade

of packed boxes

and painfully

joyful embraces.

 

Some people

fabricate their pain

knowingly and willingly,

masquerading as

the victim

in a cruel and

unfair world.

 

For others,

the world defines

cruel and unfair,

 

and some,

they let it break them.

 

Others wear the pain

like a pulsating

badge of

bloody honor,

feeding from its

richly caloric

bittersweet powerhouse,

owning it,

embracing it,

overcoming it but

never forgetting

the poisonous needles

prodding them

toward success.

 

We are brothers

and sisters,

mothers and fathers,

lovers and givers,

us all,

and the pain

doesn’t define us.

 

We define

the pain.

 

We define

the suffering.

 

We fuck up

and falter.

 

We squander

and abuse,

 

We withdraw

and explode,

 

We love and learn

while defining

our pain,

 

and it drives

us farther than

the finest

fossil fuel

 

when you

give it

the homage

it deserves.

 

 

images-13

“Cotton rows crisscross the world

  And dead-tired nights of yearning

Thunderbolts on leather strops

 And all my body burning

Sugar cane reach up to God

And every baby crying

Shame the blanket of my night

   And all my days are dying”

– The Memory, Maya Angelou

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

manifest destiny

'Betrayal' by Mario Sanchez Nevado
‘Betrayal’ by Mario Sanchez Nevado

 

The river muddy and deep

is somewhat welcoming

and even warm looking

as I ponder the farther distance

of walking the bridge

over swimming the waters.

 

Just an angry current or two,

a shorter distance

for the price of

a few hundred calories

and a swift gray undertow.

 

(Just my clothes and phone

to sacrifice to

the trash and filth.

Just me and the river.)

 

The sun shines hot

on my back

for the first time

in always and never

as the striking

primitive valley

reminds me

with it’s velvety hills

and garish billboards

that we’ve squandered

genuine beauty

for the sake of

hideous vanity.

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

when the weather wants to talk.

lightning_strike

 

The storm nudged me

through the window,

through the world

as I sat on the couch

just waiting

for something

to happen.

 

Through the window.

Through the woods.

Over the hill

strange lights

made crazy

in the clouds,

drawing me out

toward the park

on the mount,

 

through the woods

and toward the light

the hill crested

revealing the sky’s

silent inferno,

a hellish orange

miles away,

 

slow bolts of

skeletal lightning

cut through the

cream soup air

toward dehydrated ground,

 

reading it like braille

and drawing me into

the heart of the storm,

an alive thing

with a secret to share:

 

“Don’t be afraid of complexity:

I am a ghost of change.

You smelled me coming,

am I not welcoming?”

 

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

Charlie.

Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski

 

Four years into the ground

and you were nothing but

dust and bone

yet your words went down

as smoothly as

yesterday’s beer on the nightstand,

 

which for most

isn’t smoothly at all

but for a young woman

intent on drinking dry

every drop of pain

in the world around her

your metallic swill

was worth every cigarette butt

swallowed from the bottom

of that can.

 

Perhaps you tuned in

from beyond

as ghosts spoke

of your death

and your youth,

from your bedroom

and your whiskey,

of your horses

and your whores,

filling the air with

phantom thumping keys

and wafting smoke,

feeling entirely like home.

 

Like dulled mountains.

Like the steel guitar.

Like a dirty warm embrace

you spoke to me,

and suddenly I knew

that while in the

posthumous company

of a drunken misogynist,

smoking mad

fucking filthy

old soul,

 

I was somehow less alone.

 

“Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.” – Bukowski

 

bukowski026

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014