Frank-Jaspers

The Night is crimson,          A pomegranate, knife-riven,          Cane-sweet and dripping; A girl under the shady leaves of Granada: And I fall for her, I even fall into her, My teeth melting into her watery pulp,          Covering her cool naked darkness          Like a cage of shady pleasure. The Night is, And when she gives     Her tongue to rhyme In a labyrinth of thee and thine,   Glissandos, opens wide,               She opens, pouring Her heart in ruby drops of bliss. My arboresque arms          Hold the world, And with my branches outstretched, I take the girl’s starry fruits          All at once          And

Cold blooded spring has Crucified the sacred calm Of slow winter snow; Now we are weary with growth, With keen striving after green.

I want to be reunited with a dark Little trotskyite girl tattooed behind A rusty till, where cruel sky blue Cars breeze by an old roadside diner. Though separated by sinking earth, We’ve never short-changed our hearts; We’re indifferent to the slow toil Of the working class clock. Under Norma Jean skies, Sun beams like warm fleshy thighs Pour through a cloud-white dress, Warm against my unshaven cheeks. I want to be reinvented by love, Twice-born in love’s own silver Reflection. But how can I measure up, Frightened by the revelation of a voice? Surrendering to heartbreak, then alone again, And alone again —a

Ink-black birds scatter, Writing lines of free verse Across a paper sky.

With the outbreak of biological war, New Yorkers have fled underground. I am walking through a subway terminal that now serves as a makeshift hospital. Motionless masses of people crowd the injured. Their blank continuances haunt me as I pass them under the cold, sterile lights. Bloodied surgeons work in the dark with unclean instruments. Their patients stare into me with dead, thoughtless eyes. I come across a girl who is familiar to me. She has a stillborn fetus inside her that’s slowly turning into a zombie. She must have an operation immediately or the fetus will eat through her intestines. The operation proceeds, and the fetus

           The green fire of the jungle, wet with orange and purple flowers, swirls in the hot, blue wind. In the midst of it is Jang’ru, a village of some two thousand wooden rooftops built between the jungle and the edge of the dark Tara’chura River. And rising above everything like a spiraling stone incense altar is Tora Temple.            Rasko, following his usual routine of the past six months, is waiting for Arisha to bring pails so that they can carry water for the midday meal.            He sits in front of a massive grave of carefully carved river stones and meditates.            According to the monks of Tora Temple

Navrant, un adjectif prononcé “navʀɑ̃.” Quelle est la définition poétique de navrant? 1 following the shadow of the black matador,         a boy finds his footprints in the blood of fallen bulls. 2 malignantly dwelling in a grieving house, haunted by heartsick music;         the boy, grown older now, restlessly writes new verses. 3 menaced by hooded heads resembling black lanterns on the knoll,        he discovers the spectre of his own dark intelligence. 4 harried by recurring dreams of departed friends,        he watches the advancing mirror story his silvering age. 5 consumed by a list of

For now I cleanse my heart with tears That Good and Evil fruits impart Through Knowledge culled from human years, The trees from which all sufferings start. As God within me wakes my heart, My heart awakens inside God; A spark in infinite dark his art Shall draw like lightning to the rod. And burning human pride’s facade, I’ll sear and singe, a martyred saint; And with the martyr’s fervor, prod And press until I’m sacrosanct; In fearful furnaces distraint, My soul will smolder as it nears The white of lightning; and I’ll faint, Saved only then by God’s own tears.

It’s been several weeks since an IED detonated by a hostile insurgent nearly killed me. Since waking up at the American military hospital here in Balad, just north of Baghdad, I have often fallen into states of unconsciousness due entirely to excruciating pain. Hopefully, the doctors won't recommend any more surgeries. If they do, I very much doubt I will survive. But I'm not a natural pessimist; no, I have good reasons for being so gloomy. I am convalescing in a noisy room full of shouting and groans. I’m tucked beneath the sterile linen like a young boy, eating regimented and balanced meals, watching the obligatory daytime tele

Jesus and the disciples had been gathering larger and larger crowds as they crossed northwards along the Sea of Galilee. Jesus’ message was resonating with many who were tired of the cruelty and the cynicism of the past decades under Roman rule. A message of love —love for one’s family, love for one’s neighbors and friends, love for one’s community— was precisely what people wanted to hear. Then a strange event happened in the town of Capernaum just along the north eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee: while a great number of disciples were gathered together listening to a sermon, Jesus made a profoundly di

By the time I started back to the metro for Hoboken, it must have been six o’clock. I was up only thirty dollars for the day. It felt like coming home after a long day of menial, minimum wage work: very unrewarding. I made a beeline for Frank Sinatra Park, but when I arrived I saw that Nicole wasn’t there. It was already evening and the sun was going down. I concluded that she must have gone to a cafe or convenience store, maybe back to the condos. I walked past the storefronts, scanning each one for a sign of her. But, so far as I could tell, she wasn’t in any of the stores. I was getting tired of walking. So, at about sev

“Whatcha thinking about?” Nicole nudged my rib cage with her bony elbow. “Ouch … nothing.” “Nothing? Your face looks like you’re putting together a scrabble board.” “From memory, yes, that is exactly what I am doing.” I said sarcastically. “Well, you’re a liar. You should tell me what you’re really thinking about. You don’t talk enough about your past. I feel like I hardly know you.” “That’s what everyone says … Oh, but don’t say that … what do you want to know?” “I don’t know. How should I know, if

For all those who in need          Of mercy received mercy,          Who in infirmity and sickbed were healed,          Whose pure-of-heart nature brought them          Before the physicians of God;                    For these many, I am happy,          And for any kindness that does not          Conceal another motive;          And of those who were not shown          Mercy’s hand I love most          The sufferers who accepted Death’s deal,          Who left the prognosis room          With their day of judgment revealed,          Yet laughed. For the poets who did not have to sacrifice          Precious flesh or