Poetry: Cory Ginsburg

YOU CAME HOME

Pain, it comes and goes, from my torso and
through my nose
my mind never really knows
until my eyes open.

Even then, the green all around, the sweet
guitar sound--oh those silky strings
they still bring confusion to me

The self reform, redemption seems forlorn and
my shit is already born, so what do you want?
a black hat? a black beard? black shoes? black socks?
a black suit? a black bag containing long black leather
straps connected to little black boxes full of tiny wrapped
up papers written with black ink that represent the scriptures
of you?

You say, "And the code. The mathematician's code.
That spiraling mode of encrypted numbers that encumbers
y'alls beliefs."

The code fused--tagged you in an instant
like the moment a glaze reaches the deepest
pores of earthenware, burning space with glass,
faith with God's path,
to pave through to what you did not have.

Now you read Hebrew text
in Scandinavian slant
to decipher that code that God
himself wrote.

But there is no code.
And the illusion covers your Mystical City
near the Sea of Galilee with
artist colonies, morning prayers, lectures,
and names like The Mystical City.

These are extreme times for moderate measures.
So revert this rebirth,
because your face is shown--only to the ground--
unknown where one sees dark, but not the
creeping light--where one sees
selfless, I see selfish fright.

 

 

 

AFFILIATION

the soil has been planted
what grew, grew
what happened, happened
and predictions of predicaments
make for unruly living quarters
but the nature of order and
phenomena are too hidden by
the billions of growing vines
that so tightly hold the secrets
of us that all we do is look
at their thickness for answers

 

 

 

THE INSECTS

The replicators.
The creators.
The detoxic-oxy-gen(erated)
rainbow of ribo-acidic
nuclear-splitting junk bundles.
The little ones, the players,
the characters in this unequivocal,
however, direly ambiguous,
epic of natural proportions.
The instructional scum that
regenerates, mutates,
but does not create
the obscured introspection
in a network of a collection.
For an altruistic, species-specific
welfare and devotion is the
notion which lies at the heart.

 

 

 

untitled

The window is blind with the lack of shade
Its vision is half
And I am quick to fix

 

 

 

NATURE OF THE BEATS

Mother Mantis
conspicuous, successful, a coward
in Her own right
feeds with ease on Her neighbor.
his nature, sense of being, creativity,
and apparent inferiority, as sen in the
eyes of tertiary consumers, are
stolen with pride.
And even, perhaps, She takes (and exploits
unknowingly--though improbable) with the
intent of forecasting his situation to
the rest of the world.
But instead, after gathering information,
She bites off his head.

For Christ's sake his brother says,
No More Favors Need Apply

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