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The Depot

I’m sat in a bosom of healing,

Walled by many windows,

Filled with folks gathered to

Hear the music. I’m a stranger.

 

Here there is a song sung by one and heard

By many, some present, some

Not; a song with a soothing touch,

A song sung by one offering glimpses

Through the veil of other into

The flicker of a life lived seeing.

 

These short words, whose long meaning might

Only be known to the woman

Standing in a building that was

Once a train depot, these words

Make walls and glass near tracks

Carrying screeching loads

A place to mend wound and

Breathe easy. Even for the stranger.

 

Family here, family even without

That ever-harped on blood,

Swimming in song that makes small

Rooms big. If you listen close enough,

You can see it push wood without cracking,

Bulge glass without breaking, move

Tears without creating sobs.

 

In the heat heavy bosom cooled

By mechanical means, I realize, finally, I’m

No stranger. Related, in a writerly way,

Related, as tribes are, related, just as these words

Made song relate one spirit’s

Dance to another.

 

I thought I’d stand near the tracks to feel

The train as it passed. I didn’t. Instead

I walked and knew that where once I held pain,

Where once I held pain,

I now felt kind hands

Assuring me I’d be

Just fine.

 

 

Grid

Grid of a city

Sitting off-orange

Like a specter

Half quiet

And dark

Traffic a trickle,

Its older brother

Arkansas running

Fast and high

With spring tears

In vein

 

Mother’s bosom

Hidden by building,

Broken people,

Hardened history,

And asphalt

It’s all night

All day

For her

 

Sacred directions

Define sides of

Cross-hatched

Economy,

Of compartmented

Bodies

North with its

Dusk tint,

East with its

Fire,

West with its

Empty,

South bathed

In sickly green

 

Few places to pray

In the grid

So many holes

To crawl into

 

Rarely a shining

Point in the glow

Overhead

Just that sultry

Haze hanging round

Like feet on the corner

No place to go

 

Days, stunningly

Short

Sundown chimes

Its long din,

Thrumming chords

Of street stick

To rib of home,

To roof of yawning

Mouth,

Hard to hear

When you’re in it

 

View a shock

From the highway,

When all’s distant,

The glow tangible,

Contained,

You can feel

The dirt-light tune

Rumble out

While you close

In

Wheel wanting reverse

Engine catching fire

With drive to hit home

 

Tulsa’s song is low;

A slow ballad of botched

Kindnesses,

Warm evils,

And tired, hollowed

Voices

 

Copyright 2016

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

 

Today

Today Wind ran its fingers

Through the hair of tall grass

Hugged by mowed trail

and concrete called Asp

 

Today I stood on path and

Felt my hair play with Grass

drifting in the same direction:

Unega

 

Spider came and kissed my

Bare foot as foot was feeding

Being fed by Mother

Spider did not bite

 

The sun sang to the water

Inside me, asking it to

Embrace the wind,

To find the cleanest air

that found me

 

I did not tell sweat to bead

It was not told, it obliged

Breathing  in it cooled

me

 

The brush sang with sun,

Air composing the heart

Beat of the wild within

wild

 

Another spider greeted me

In my home that smelled

Of cooking Pig, plant, and

potato

 

Spider stumbled around my

Window searching

I put him in a cup and

Helped him back home

Spider did not need to ask.

 

Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

Cracked

Winter trees,

The warmest part

Where the sun lays

Tongue on bark,

Bare and free from

Foliage

 

In a park, roughage

Strewn like clover

Patches

Trees cracking in mood

Unrivaled by the browning

Grass

 

The street caught in

A rare nude moment

Sun spitting at it, revealing

A relevant comparison,

A compassion found only

In memory of what was

And what will be

 

Perched  well above both

Street and tree, several

Ravens caw as their heads

On swivel find points of interest

 

A horn sounds, the revelation

Cracked, like the street and

The tree

 

The birds move head and wing

Toward some other empty scene

Moon Bone (Pt. 2)

Knothole in wood,

brick lid link lifting,

lost iris humming fire

into skunk tail pitched upward,

wind skimming tall grass exhalation.

 

Moth dirt from wing fixing pixel

into frame left grit ridden,

shifting perspective from above to

below.

 

Wrung dry bits of feather leaf drifting,

quieting foot crack and tree step,

water running solid droplets to dew.

 

Glories hanging wet in solar preparation,

perched on bird back crying light into

pore.

 

Morning cracking faint psalm jokes,

troubling random audio rambling.

All dancing in television swirls;

static chords of AC cooled senses.

 

Windows sipping sunlight, lids open,

mirrors transparent and brittle.

 

Moon a flaccid petal,

a pearl without bone.

 

 

Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

Glenda Flew

Glenda flew from sun-soaked

California to Oklahoma.

 

California was idle for a few precious

moments;

Its usual bustle resumed as the plane

took to air.

 

Three DUI’s, two families.

Split  seconds, spit lanes,

a median.

Ed crossed the threshold of

the Yellow Brick Road

joyless.

 

From yellow bricks to

dark concrete,

tangerine shimmer

the only life on the highway.

 

One leg over, then the other,

two ends with one impact.

Ed was struck dead, the man driving

struck dumb.

He held my uncle as emergency services rolled in.

Glenda arrived in Oklahoma,

greeted on unfamiliar soil by

faces the color of memory and

whimsy. She felt comfort despite

the journeys purpose.

 

Drinks were poured, film strip

like reminiscences shared,

tears shed and stayed.

 

Night dropped heavy its curtain

while rain warped the backyard view.

Nephew and mother sat beside one another,

speaking between wet cracks of charged

air.

 

Glenda had never seen intense lighting,

never felt a thunder storm.

Sitting Indian style youth and wisdom,

holding hands, little in big,

waited as wonder washed from the

now empty space that Ed once inhabited.

 

Thunder, ephemeral, growling,

with rain crosshatching imperceptibly

the rippling sound, somehow

sealed a moment in a perfect pocket.

Those flashes and rumbles living still

as strong as before their birth.

 

Two bodies, each a vessel for shocked sky,

tributaries meeting at a shared end-body,

leave the storm and take shelter in bed.

 

Wet butterfly wings rest, knowing sun

will forgive, that forgiveness is not a loss,

and that flight is still reality.

 

Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Whinge

Wrote this poem as an experiment. Slam poetry, as it exists today, is not something I truly enjoy. Though slam’s origin is fascinating and its early works and writers phenomenal, it seems to have devolved into a template; a boring and repetitious flow accompanied by some shocking “drop” or purposeful placement of intensity that leaves some breathless and others sighing. That being said, I thought I’d write a parody slam poem, but what came to be is a half-decent poem that is written in a voice I’m not familiar with, a voice somehow not akin to the voices of my other works. Well, hope you like it.

 

Cause we speak through open windows

And passed closed doors

We whisper soft until streets of cities

Building peaked

Fill with syllables not even gutters

Can suck

And we siphon syllables

And crunch until fed

And we regurgitate as best we can

Whole words for folks to nod to

And I refuse to treat folks like refuse

Sometimes I treat people like street water

Cause

Street water can be saturated through and through

With words so full they burst and make puddles

Cause street water’s just rain

Just rain and exhaust

And I’m exhausted, and I’m rain

I bloom and I fall

The plumes of hate and pain are never amiss

Seemingly seeping deep into concrete worlds

So deep not even lighting cracks can absolve

The rock-still structures

But still flowers come

Through sidewalk slits and alley

Pits they come

Each spring they bounce in dirt and shit wind

And they never whinge, always all petal and brilliance

Grandma said

Tenacious is the flower that, despite harsh conditions,

Stands low heavy

We are low and heavy

 

Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

 

To the Sconces

 To the sconces

With their phallic filament-middled bulbs

With their labial flows of upturned glass

Each bit one, as in a sexless amalgam of

All that is sensual, no deviation

No dichotomy

Sconces that weep for one another

Are wept for

Weeping powdered light

Light so moving that even the stained glass

Is left in envious frenzy when it knows its warmth

The sconces beg the unaccustomed eye to see

To see and feel again like newborn babes

Seeing and holding that sight, clutching it

Holding, allowing it to hold one back

Asking not for or why, only whispering bitter something’s

Invocating and rending minds

Beauteous and somehow not so,

Somehow bringing light in from out

Making more black in corners born from black

Leaving all corners formless, fleshless, bloodless

Calling to darkness to end its foreboding bluff

Mourning cracking glass and dying filament

Pudendum growing grey and old

Untouched in its aging stress

To the sconces I say thanks

Welcome me in to your light

Make a moth of me

Dangle there, I’ll flit around and spasm

Knocking my soft head against you

Let me die by you

Kill me with unwavering acceptance

Touch me while you kill and kiss me

Bring me in close enough

To smell wet breath and hover over me

Move my head so that I’m not blinded

So that I can see what you cannot

So that I can be a vessel for you

For your light, for the darkness you create

Let it all be one, in burst let me die

Carry me with your brilliance, drop me in ignorance

I will not scream, but I will gibber

Nothing can come from me without you

Burn inside me, render me ever loving

Passion in your filaments, contained by your glass

Spilling out shamelessly, caressing anybody that you meet

Unabashed fingers twitching madly over hot skin

Never mind the gender, never mind the nerves

Keep whispering your something’s, bitter and bright

 

Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

OM of lamplight

Under the OM of lamplight

Almsgiving palm drooping,

dipping needle fingers into

warm, sweat laced, masculine hairs.

Feminine presence of flora, fauna

weeping into page,

wilting altogether now;

the lamplight, the palm, the hair.

Limp with want, erratic in its spaceless,

placid fervor.

An uproar of brow, breathing steady

into ceilings domain,

eyes wide with wonder, wide from sleepless

moments leading to aching fingers, arched, saluting as they

type.

An ache elsewhere, and another

one fueling, the other dragging vessel

toward rest, toward dark new light.

Indigo stretch marks on the skies black-blue

belly,

Jovial as usual, singing and sighing its way into

brilliance.

Several empty aluminum cans.

Several empty aluminum cans, filling

plastic trash-bin, also stretched

Fingers still tapping, brow still rising

Screen an awkward pallor, signifying somehow life,

smelling more like death.

Silent despite its ancestors tendency to whine.

Air between eye and screen pinched tight

within a vice, within vice;

pinched and easily forgotten, though words

keep spilling.

Slowly arranged, slower now than before

Blank spaces to the right and left

matching the narrow atmosphere

the tight chest and shrinking man

 

Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

Fat backed spider

Fat backed spider,

perhaps stuffed with

offspring,

or innards rendered liquid.

Wide like summer mood, heat

waves drifting, out and up,

fighting solidity.

Folded grass, not quite cut by

dull bladed mower, mower

pushed by swollen knuckled

paws.

Quakes in ground, above head shattered

light thrusting through charged cloud,

a fire wind here, a cold breeze there.

A web of moment, twisting violently

through footfall and eye level

speech.

Pollen thick as sand, creating web in lung

and stiff, struggling breast.

Thin spiders too, bundled in silk,

back like wheat tip, eyes hidden.

Dogwood stink, the life fluid of the season,

cotton colored nodes of bright but

empty detritus.

That mood, whispering warm, raising voice to cool,

and all for what?

For us, no. For us, certainly not.

We are of that mood, of the wind that

shakes branches from trees, branches like

trunk born June bug legs, of trees

that some think theirs, but trees

like spider backs; no mans thing,

strong in its being one, one of other,

one of all.

 

Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

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