Chaos Inside Thunderstorms by Garry Gottfriedson

Author:Garry Gottfriedson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781553803287
Publisher: Ronsdale Press

Questions

hating yourself is the greatest

love of all

I remember the taste

tingling on my tongue

I have heard the melody

of this ecstasy vibrating in my bones

I sang in harmonic bliss

accentuating the dead still fresh in sound

my mother, my grandmothers, my dead lovers

all ash, all dust, all for me to grieve

I scribbled poems until my wrists hurt

then again, I questioned my writing, my words, my words

. . . all ash, ash . . . all dust, dust . . . all grieving, grieving

pieces of the ones gone . . . my matriarchs, my loves

eternally flutter within

sonnets vomiting ink

I published them all, all of them

in capitalistic greedy print

and when the ink became

cracked black islands like desert floors

I yelled, I screamed, I warned my grandsons

who skated away with angels

gone to sacred places, never to return

disgusted with reality

tormenting their souls

they hid in the shadows of heaven

they shouted back

“you are a fool”

understanding is something else

respect is expected

yet the bombs still dropped from heaven

dangerous things burst out of the ordeal

I spat vile words

ran for water to dilute the dry ink

and the rest of the country braced for the aftershock

because the muddy roads filled with women’s blood

I scribbled more poems

Goya was my manic pen

because of their screams

because of their love for me

because there was no projector for this film

because I was Goya alive

no film previewed

no dogs barked

no audience

no sound

no gawking eyes

no evidence

that someone hated himself

enough to cause terror

that someone forgot

sacredness

that someone made love

by the tombstones of war

and now, orphans drink from gutters

shake their fists towards god

watch their mothers disappear

become deaf from their fathers’ outrage

who said they could bomb

their way into a feminist paradise

who said they could create

sounds for hearing-impaired sons of macho men

and once the bodies dissolved to dust

the birds still sang somewhere else

it was a garden of birds

where musicians were forbidden to play

but hoped someone heard the notes

the story, the story, the story of my self hate

tell it like it is. hear me?

hear me? tell it like it is

news. news flashes from around the world

it is my story

Taliban of a different sort

get the results

desire little hotties in black dresses

become predators to orphan boys

take pride in the ashes of their loved ones

flying lost in glory, and then

stomping their way to earth

detonating rage when they land

it is so far from life

it is psychological spiritualism

dancing backwards

leading souls into the land of milk and honey

there, Holocaust was a word

before it was born

a holy land full of dread

the devout pitted in an abyss

it is what I keep my grandchildren from

it is what I was given

only now, I realize

that utopia is the love you give yourself

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