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Blake More

 

Blake More -

UCLA graduate and a lifetime member of the Phi Beta Kappa Honor Society, Blake More is an artist with many creative voices and expressions, poetry being her first obsession, though her work spans the spectrum: from book, magazine, poetry and playwriting to performance art, dance and yogic trapeze; from teaching poetry, video and drama to theatrical costume design, functional mixed media art/life pieces, assemblage sculpture and wildly painted poetry art cars. Her newest book godmeat is a collection of poetry, prose, color artwork, and a DVD compilation of poem movies (available at www.godmeat.com). To explore Blake’s creative world, please visit www.snakelyone.com.

 

POETRY

 

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4Eyed Frog

 

 

 

 


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To A Mexican Fisherman, A Yogi

I don’t know your name
but I remember you
magenta trunks slung
low to oblige your belly
sea and sunrise reflected
against your brown body
as it gazed forward
honoring the prayers
of my naked skin

the sun climbed
toward our heads
and side by side
we practiced yoga
even if you called it fishing
me trying to catch
my soul with a Triangle
you content with dinner
for your family

though I didn’t say it then
thank you for the fence
you built around our square of beach
the no trespassing sign
warning the middle-aged frat boys
who swaggered by, sniffing
at me like I was some slab
of prime rib asking to be devoured

I know they felt you
even if they didn’t
quite understand the force
that drove them on
the force that doomed
one to give up
the hope in his groin
as he turned his head back
every few steps
till the whole of him
became a speck
of black sand
wondering if the fence
was still there

It was, and like a skull and crossbones
you were there too
making certain
all who passed unaware
saw the danger of crossing
over your silence
your calm face
freeing mine
from defending my territory

Later, when I dove shouting
into the March ocean
you laughed
your eyes telling me
you felt alive already
that this moment was enough
to carry you on
to carry both of us
well past spring
past the bus
waiting to return us
to the asphalt world
past the sleeping faces
the un-moments
the almost moments
all the way
to the next beach
the next smile
the next time
we find yoga again.


blake more
2001



 

dusk’s close

the whispering silence crackles like god’s radio
as we sit on the worn hardwood bench
long after the sky show has ended

poised between moon candle and you
I reach into our shared backpack for a mango
to celebrate the darkening blue peace between us
my fingers striping the flesh away from the meat
as we pass the soft oval back and forth
sounds of good sex fill the air, the sweet slurping kind
until we have only the colors of sunset
to lick off our arms

nothing is left but love
the months of fighting suspended in atmospheric spell
of breath and truce
I open into your eyes
let you reach inside mine
quarry the rich laugh
I had almost forgotten with you
safe and alive

a pair of owls alight over your head
their ghostly shadows
mirroring ours
as they disappear into the V above the redwoods

we are here to heal opinions
nourish the belly of our time together
peer over the cup
reclaim the beauty as we leave it behind
we know the words

goodbye lover

it is tree raining when we walk home
palms pressed together

blake more
2007

 
Dusk's Close

 


Waking up in a past life

waking up in a past life

I open my eyes to bums howling, cackling
dragging their cardboard beds
into doorways, fancy boutique ones
that don’t open till noon
the sky reaching into strands of lip and persimmon
spread wide with faraway black birds
I am already tired
my vision close to the senseless waste
of minds, especially mine
a headline of corned beef…does it pop?
do I really want mothers to trust nestlé again?

why not go all the way
sleep in alleys
scrape off calluses with knives
eat pizza crust out of north beach dumpsters
laugh and drink and piss on concrete
I could paint apocalyptic pictures
sing the sidewalk blues
recite to into space

I want someone like me
lost, searching, hungry for purpose
to buy me cognac at specs
touch my shoulders
listen to my seventh dimensional underpinings

I am a shaman in bums clothing
alive on the razor
between jail and liver failure
staring the frat boy as he kicks me
into the hospital
telling the cop it will be okay
in the next life
he will be forgiven

but now, I’m getting dressed
in corporate drag
sheer pantyhose, low heals, trim skirt
light cleavage
I have a corner office cubicle
a meeting at two with a potential client
a first date with a weightlifter from the gym
the type who’ll take me
to a place with big portions
so he can rib me about my tiny appetite
our mouths constantly moving
in nowhere conversation
maybe I’ll get laid
come home with a waxed box of leftovers
to leave as on offering to the street

blake more
2007

 


Okakyu

odakyu sen at rush hour

we are toilers pulled through the track of evening
fingers crossed behind moving glass
faithful no one will stand out
do something to embarrass
culture

I am this smudge
as I watch a salariman
much shorter and older than I
press himself into a young office lady
rub his groin along the contours of her pink suit
smell the sable of black napped at her neck

she tries to move away
but has nowhere to go
it is 6pm and we are minnows in a sea of flesh
he is the shark
her ass in hand
reaching under for the good meat
I watch her hand squeeze the dangling ring
as her eyes lock on the floor in docile acquiesce

where is your fight girl, I want to shout
do you like it?
anonymous old perv fingering your panties?

I want to save her
even if she can’t save herself
but I think of the time in omotosando
when I heard a woman whimpering
no no no
at the end of a dark alley
and ran to discover a black marine
doing her against the wall
very much with her consent: the rape fantasy

but I cannot take these limp people
lined up in rows of blue
looking away or into newspapers
with half clad schoolgirls
printed alongside financial reports

I am a gaijjin superhero

I leap up, press myself between the two
my body forcing his hand back to his side
I grip the ring closest to his head
and lean into him
I tower and glare
his anger meets my good deed

it’s a stare down
to the next stop
his face turning redder, more pinched
until the doors finally open
allowing him to escape into the masses
a new piece of office lady underwear already on his mind

the victim does not thank me
the other passengers continue to read or look away
I quietly remove my invisible cape
and return to my former seat
my culture sticking out like a nail
that won’t get hammered down

blake more
2007

 


deer lights

dear lights

just two of us
returning from the Casper Inn
after a playful night of flirting young bucks
both women unrelenting to the chase
though staying a bit too long for old ladies in their almost forties
who had to get up the next day
two ladies driving home near the hour
when midnight blue slowly blushes with sun

the coast range stood quiet
breathing in the sweet air from yesterday’s rain
as we approached the final hairpin into town
our mouths moving at once
recapping the stories, repeating our favorites, laughing
making promises to go out together more often
“I wish the sun would come out”, I said
and she agreed,
reminding me of how many times we had stayed out all night together
it would be a fitting end

and suddenly there it was
not one but two suns
on the road
startled and tender
staring up from the double yellow line
not at us exactly
but into us
the three point rack holding the head high
so the red creek trickled from mouth to asphalt

without speaking
I drove around the massive obstacle
and pulled into the dirt shoulder a few yards up
we turned and looked at each other
“we’ve got to get him off the road” neither of us said
but we both got out of the car
and walked north to where the creature lay
our flashlights in hand
ready to alert oncoming drivers to our presence

I greeted the crimson-crusted face
stroked behind its ears
and said, I’m sorry buddy, what a shame for you
and cooed comforts as any nightingale would do
the words “serves you right, deer fucker
for eating all my plants”
didn’t even come to mind
amid the slow suffering of inevitable death
and entrails slumped onto the highway

she grabbed the back legs and pulled
pulling until it became obvious
she needed the strength of two
so we each took a hoof and dragged
dragged the great old buck into the ditch
till the road held nothing but a dark stain
for school mothers and fisherman and construction workers
to run over when their morning came

we did not have a gun nor a knife
only a shovel
and we flipped a coin
to decide
who would
put out
the suns

blake more
2008



Purchase from store
"godmeat"
by Blake More
a 128 page collection of poetry, prose, color artwork, and video (the book comes packaged with a poem movie DVD).

Price $29.00 including tax,
shipping and handling.

Contact Blake More
blake@snakelyone.com



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