Morality And Mortality

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

Portions of me
were an orange from Valencia.

Portions of me
spoke to my classmates
in an auditorium in college.

Portions of me
walked through the Agora
at midday
with pieces of billion year old
dust all around.

I’m wrong.

I’m full of mortality.

You turn your eyes away from
these words.

You’re wrong too.

The evening sky burns pink and
orange.

: : Poetry from tewkMehrtin

The Class of Tom And Del Greco

The slaves have gone.
Euripedes, Thucycles;
the slaves have not gone.
The slaves have left their
robes and linens.
Their guitars and banjos
are leaning on the fence.

The slaves take down
the senator’s eye
and in place
put in the olive seed.

They eat and sleep in
the commoners’ homes,
the track houses and
cheap apartments,
not starting a revolution
that starts a revolution.
The slaves.

Letter To A Statue

This is the phone number
for the gatekeeper of Althesius,
(555) 484-1123.
He is an excellent fisherman.

Althesius is a gated seaport.
Very odd,
but since the conquest of Xerxes
we have feared other invasions,
except the sunrises
and the bronzing that it does to
our morning smiles.

We eat grapes in the morning, freshly harvested,
bathe in the sea,
listen to the cries of the homosexual waves
on the homosexual sea-nymphs.
The sunlight touches them: they are brethren.

“Come with me
and I
will make you
fishers
of men.”


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
from:
lovers of the century thumbnail image
Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)

Θνησιμότητα

We’re all going to die.

The Universe will decide.

Will it decide?

Or will it just do?

Do what it does to our cells.

Do what it does on days

when our best friends die,
when we eat grilled meat on a stick,
smoke cigarettes,
read about maniacal politicians,
or lay down to sleep.

We all go away,

in one way or another,

forgotten in anonymity
after twenty-five
or
ten thousand years,

our purpose extinguished,
our intentions vanished,

weathered down in ceremonial
stone,

so some pompous asshole
can say,

“I know what they meant.”

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

My Love In Aegean

Her eyes
are the fish of the sea
I remember on afternoons
when the sun
in its highest point
penetrated
down
to the rocks and blue.

Her skin
is the horizon of houses
I come over the hills of
Marathon
to see their white plaster by
green cedars
wavering in
Boreas and Zephyr’s daydreaming.

Her home
is the hand and the valley shaped
figure
I’ve grown and dreamed towards
but
never touched,
turning to the wood of the
dresser instead
to save a warm splinter of
sunlight,

to go on breathing deep breaths
as
I age.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin

The Bronzed Hills Near Marathon

You carve me in the ledges of your back,
I am hiding in the bronzed hills near Marathon.
It will be a long walk back to the metropolis,
that descension towards the lower lands,
scattering the hairs of dusk,
leading to good-byes across the Aegean.
Farewell ancestors of yesterday,
today I love for you, King Minos.
I will watch blue layers unfold below and above me.
I will drop my Adam’s apple.
I will thirst.

When I see you next,
I will carve your breasts
at a banquet held midday.
Fruit in our love life drips
and I wash you with it
and drink the washings.

In the silence of a white plaster room,
white lighted by sunshine and vaporous breathing,
a dance of zygote dissipates.
The age of gods and goddesses is born, lived,
and died.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
from:
lovers of the century thumbnail image Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)

As Brother

I’ve gone beyond the walls,
beyond the walls of Athens

to smoke my cigarette

with the Arabs, the Africans, and Persians.

Though I go not here to
turn on Athens,
to show no one the entrance into her,

but to be with these ones as other,
to smoke with them
as brother,
in the hours of the citrus sun,
the yellow, the gold, the white, and red,

for those of us who have arms and legs.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin

Above Calypso’s Sea

There was an island here
that held my carnal desires.

When shadows showed
on the cavern walls
from the fire
I ate them.
I fucked them.

Tumbling into the night.
Twisting close to stars.
Not quite celestial.
Not earthen.
Not there in one way
or another.

Between happiness,
long forseen in the world
of the future,
allured and drunk.

But the old winds came,
brought a priestess
to take me to the coasts of the humans,
so I could see
their achievements and failings,
their temples and refuse,
then
I could see myself
in the words I’ve written and others
who write in me
at the wooden table
in the daylight and the midnight
that
completes the verse of the wave . . .

the one, one wave.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin

Faux Paella

There’s something called a faux paella.
I make it when nobody’s looking.
I take my girlfriend down to the beach.
Yeah yeah yeah.
The faux paella . . . fuh fuh fuh,
faux paella!

It sits on a window seal in a dish.
The cops on the street look up at it.
The encyclopedia doesn’t dare speak of it.
The faux paella.

Now after it’s been cooked the process is finished.
You fake what’s been done in a pan – in a pot.
The priest is restrained and also well beaten.
O holy lake of fire.
The Holy Spirit jumps up out of it.
Toss it in an oven in between breathing.
Some people spill it on the beach.
Faux paella.
Yeah yeah yeah.
Faux paella!

The police are here to arrest all of you.
Faux paella!
Oh yes, faux paella!

I gnash my teeth and bash out windows.
Oh my Lord,
not again, not in my friend’s car,
the bombs are loud, the smoke is blue.
The faux paella!

News of a new war.
The faux paella!
The economy’s not doing good.
That’s the faux paella!
Arm the national police force
with the faux paella.

The faux paella . . . fuh fuh fuh,
faux paella!

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin

Crags Of Delphi In Kohl’s

I’m going into Kohl’s
at seven thirty seven A.M.

I’m going into Kohl’s.

Have I not lived?
Am I alive?
Is this what I’ve done with
my partitioning?

The fluorescent lights
split
thoughts in my brain.

I was once alive again.

A bird.
In sky.

There’s a song beyond sky.
A song without.
A song within.

I go into Kohl’s but still
I live,
my eyes on last year’s
Super Bowl sweatshirt,
a pretzel bite dissolved in
my mouth,
memories of my vanished father,
visions of the crags of Delphi
from the air.

– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin