Poetry meets itself at intersections, under red lights. Chinese fire-drills must end, and outmoded automotive textual structures are subsequently parked and abandoned. Multiplicities of internalized intersectionality reveal/disguise territorialities of diversified desire. Poetry exposes these stratigraphies while simultaneously subverting them. Marginalized hinterlands of de-commodified becoming must yield eventually to the demands of intentionally-curated collective creative endeavor, whether the curators and curatees recognize it or not. Poetics cannot and will not languish indefinitely in an unempowered and unempowering patriarchal masquerade. The textual role of poetry is to transplant the vital organs of patriarchy into woke readers so they can reject them and thereby become organless texts themselves.
All intersectionality is poetic. I don’t know what intersectional even means but I don’t care (clown-face).
Patricians have our best interests in mind.
Administration is impartial, kind.
Keeps us laughin’, keeps us singin’— And I’m Hildegard of Bingen.
She gets it like she gets the working class;
My head is nodding, up my Marxist ass.
White woke wedding bells are ringin’ Happy Hildegard of Bingen.
Government will gladly redistribute.
As our paychecks sing eternal tribute.
Gangsta-leanin, frontin’, blingin: Chill with Hildegard of Bingen.
Icecaps, like medieval saints, are HOT.
Climate is in crisis when it’s not . . .
Global warning: winter’s springin’ Heating Hildegard of Bingen.
Intersectionality has meaning.
Hormones lie, biology’s demeaning .
Genderfluid queens are kingin’ Checkmate, Hildegard of Bingen.
Transnationals are cleaning up the mess;
Their CEO’s have little to confess.
Silver in the till, ka-chingin’ Profits Hildegard of Bingen.
Hildegard, the Moorish maiden, lauded.
Wokeness smiled. Diversity applauded.
Flames ascend and seraphim are wingin’ To the throne of Hildegard of Bingen.
Hildegard of Bingen
German:Hildegard von Bingen; Latin: Hildegardis Bingensis: (1098 –1179) also known as Saint Hildegard and the Sibyl of the Rhine, was a German Benedictine abbess, writer, composer, philosopher, Christian mystic, visionary, and polymath.
Prompt #15: write a poem inspired by your favorite kind of music.
That could mean incorporating refrains, neologisms and flights of
whimsy, or repeating/inverting lines or ideas –
whatever your chosen musical form would seem to require!
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down
John Lennon
A carnal muse and fallen sprite
I’ll paint for you, in flattering light.
My model’s sensuality
Shall trump all dull reality;
Inspired by Womankind’s raw truth,
Life-drawing class heats up, uncouth.
Still, I am sure some stiff-necked prude
Shall smear my heartfelt lay as lewd.
Edenic exile sought by men,
Receive this tribute from my pen
And keyboard, played inexpertly
By one who knows you rapturously
As a muse of Aztec/Latin race
Prodigious in your works and grace:
Born Ruth Ayon, in God-Knows-Where,
She overwhelms in underwear—
And shedding that, turns good men bad,
Makes angels fall and gods go mad.
Los Angeles (and that’s the joke)
Is where this cherub went for broke,
Cashing in her soul for action,
Soreness, sperm and tumefaction.
Laurie Vargas, mouth full of cum,
Spread for us now your Aztec bum.
Your sultry contours hypnotize;
The laughter in your wetback eyes
Brings music from Tenochtitlán
And opens windows to Aztlán
You smile, unlike those other sluts
Who merely grimace. Gringa butts
Are less audacious than your own . . . Their charms are better left unknown.
Your cheeks in tan proportion shine
Embodying some rare truth divine.
(Through Poetry, I’ll make them mine.)
I must speak forth of what I found—
Though standing on unholy ground,
Here I behold your lively art . . .
Your unpierced flesh has lanced my heart.
Whereas most stars are tattooed, jaded
Your bright aspect shines, unfaded.
Clad in campesina thread
While moaning on your torrid bed,
Adorned in homespun broidered blouse
In some vaquero‘s rancho-house
Or naked as Mexica dawn,
Bespattered like a dewdropped lawn,
Spurting with some panting plumber
In an endless porno-summer,
You glow, like honey dipped in light
And undulating Latin night.
Your burning bush, much-trafficked place,
Recalls the Red Sea’s parted space
No less than your beatific face.
An unrepentant Magdalene,
You plunge into each graphic scene.
Madonna of the varied act
You swell, engorge, dilate, contract
And play the part with crazy wit
Suckling madly at your own tit.
The way you can accommodate
What barely seems to satiate
With pure abandon, leaves us awed,
As mesmerized, your name we laud,
(With one hand—harder to applaud !)
Will you survive to have regrets
When raw desire no longer gets
Your body hot with inner flame?
When sex has ceased to call your name?
I wonder if you’ve found such paths
Of flesh and pimping sociopaths
A route to riches, gain, and pleasure
Or mere sacking of your treasure.
At the end of your sweaty day,
Is there more than a harlot’s pay?
I wish you well—and hope in time,
When life has left you less sublime,
You’ll find your way to God through Christ
And learn of what was sacrificed
To free you from your sordid fame
Where sinners hail your glorious shame.
Laurie Vargas was born in 1983 in Los Angeles, California, as Ruth Ayon.
(Some sources indicate Guadalajara Mexico as her birthplace)
PROMPT #14: write a poem that deals with people who inspired you to write poems.
These could be people that you strive to be like,
or even people that you strive not to be like.
There are as many ways to go with this prompt as there are ways to be inspired.
PROMPT #14: write a poem that deals with the poems, poets, and other people who inspired you to write poems. These could be poems/poets/people that you strive to be like, or even poems, poets, and people that you strive not to be like. There are as many ways to go with this prompt as there are ways to be inspired.
So… can I pull out a meticulously edited draft to comply with this prompt?
Prompt #15
CONNECT/HOOK 