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

Appointment With Directors

Chase the hills in Mexico,

followed the tones of your skin into shadows,

by the morning the sun was there

all eyes were open
and the beaches bartered eternity,

I reached for a tortilla.

The moss and mold hid, then fell apart
underneath
the eyes of the onward looking directors of Universe.

Afternoon cascaded down your legs
dribble dribble
and my head feels so good,
I smell the old plants,

let me eat the oranges in a still room,
god damnit, I am like an old man.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Spell

Who’s been noticing
the urine stains in my underwear?
Who requested
the memories that I lost?
Who’s been etching a rock
upon is claimed “there is asylum”?

. . . the Apostles?

Who cuts the grass
when the current lawn boy moves away
(not from this place, but from himself)?
Will the next lawn boy stay,
and find meditation
in his chores of repetition?

. . . all of us . . . do we?

Who fed me sodium all my life?
In amounts extreme;
an addiction to such spice
my liver must I trust.

The timbers of my blood have fallen.
Do you have the courage of imagination
to raise them?
Do you know the conifer-king of
ionized ever-greens?

. . . only one;
the answer or the question,
the human or the animal.


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image

Some Pass, Some Pass Away

Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
People talked about the skin,
associated it with this friend
when its vision was requited in their memories.

Eventually, most fell out of touch
with the owner of Plate,
but never did they forget the
blooming gore
of that Georgia O’Keeffe-like
still life.
In fact,
many are reminded daily,
when they eat tortillas dipped in chili,
when chili is poured atop a hot dog,
when they fall asleep in church.

. . . “folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
Who was that, who’s plate was that?”


– Poetry by Wes tewkMehrtin
READ POETRY tewkMehrtin animated gif image