• by
    Jé Maverick
    Tuesday, April 7, 2015
    Incomprehensibility without God
    is the sole state of absurdity.
    It’s a story entering a void
    untold by
    It’s a man leaving
    a poem half
    a line
    a
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Monday, April 6, 2015
    The nightingale is a flightless bird.
    One can find it in handbooks
    such as Shakespeare and Keats and
    A Field Guide To Barbaric Yawps Of The Pacific Rim,
    although a tiresome man once proclaimed
    that often a nightingale is just a nightingale,
    hagiographies reveal its mystic edge
    as man’s incomprehensibility without God.
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Sunday, April 5, 2015
    Singing of herself is a mother’s perdition.
    Songs stain the air, fiends clawing
    at the throat which bore them. Guilt dogs,
    black as demons. Imps at congress
    with wayward breaths, scarlet letters swarming
    in the void. Metaphors swirling
    in a pool of loathing, babushka dolls shrieking
    at the violence of being opened.
    Though it can soar
    the nightingale remains a flightless bird.
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Saturday, April 4, 2015
    Muting her passage with a portent of ash,
    they sing a prophecy of bones, a dessication,
    their passions trembling in dumb unison:
    though seized by an extinction,
    her voice yet flees the amber like a moon
    escapes a dwarf sun’s darkness.
    Another light. Another orbit.
    A voice that rises like magma
    eating through the deep black marl. A voice
    to gnaw the Underworld itself
    into a malformed maze of myth untold, a Styx diverted,
    a history cleaved, a slain Pantheon.
    She is the light of imagination.
    Provisional woman, aberration,
    she combs a ruddy shore
    seeking the conference of giants,
    her voice a risen Lazurus
    singing of herself.
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Friday, April 3, 2015
    Life written backwards never once meant death,
    though all that howls from history stifles
    her living air: memory seeks the forging
    of an obolus, the rowing forward of Charon.
    The token refused – the heart of others
    shining from her dead mouth: a grotesque truth, bleating
    and bleak, a numbness blooming. A failed
    straining towards love. Her issue pour
    dreams of flight into madrigals, bonfire songs,
    lullabies for their rounds as albatross.
    Drooling and mumble-eyed they mouth meanings,
    words absent from a singing to their rage,
    a choir of wild silences raised
    from a malignance of air,
    tubers sucking at the void, malformed tinder in a pyre,
    muting her passage with a portent of ash.