Salvatore Ala, 12 września 2013
The earth is cradled in a grave
The sky is buried in the earth
The stones are hanging from a thread of light
And everyone here has been here before
And everyone has come a long way
And those who love meet those who hate
And those who breathe air breathe stone
And those who are fire are dust
And those who are clay shall be wine
And those who arrive meet those departing
And children find their mothers
And fathers reconcile with sons
And the old meet themselves in the young
And the young discover a road
And round the heavenly clock time is as nothing
And we cluster for warmth
At the brief fire of a thousand years
Salvatore Ala, 24 kwietnia 2015
The most noxious landfill is language.
Books are polluted; libraries, dump sites.
Due to toxic levels of pathetic fallacy
Bookstores recall infected books;
Greenpeace intervenes poetry readings;
Poets are fined for offshore word spills.
Why must a cloud be forever lonely?
Why must the sea be always cruel?
Books burn by their own hands.
Lexicon’s toxic waste contaminates
Our graves and poisons our shadows
From which we rise to stain the world.
Salvatore Ala, 9 marca 2012
Neither complete reason or revelation
But falling in love again when we can’t help it
Ambient composite blue transparent to the stars
Between dawn and sunrise sunset and dusk
Constellations swirl in blue-ringed octopus spheres
Between cerulean and cobalt a painted sky
Something levels like the height of waters
Cityscapes hang in Krishna heavens
A mirror’s blue velvet tumbles to the floor
Night sways in the white sheers of a blue room
Unfinished wine drinks the rose of night
Music trickles the ether of afterglow
The blue hour ebbs from the earth's shadow
We are strangers in the space of a window
Salvatore Ala, 20 września 2013
... neither God nor No-God
Louis MacNeice
Not clouds but burkas naked on clotheslines,
Hawksmoor gloom with Horus eye,
Warzone Luftwaffe left-over thunder,
Lions’ heads on building tops,
Quorum of the heavens… London fog
And a neighborhood in London fog,
The ghost of Hitchcock at the window
Of his house gave the shadow of a doubt.
Nothing was real, not buildings or streets.
Only a waking sleep from cab to cab
And a destination from which you depart.
Not clouds but statues wet in flesh
And veil, as in “The Winter’s Tale,”
Or the dead likeness of a changing guard.
North of the city an explosion; south, a beheading.
Astride the block a shadow slumps.
The head of God, a cloud in a basket.
Salvatore Ala, 10 sierpnia 2012
Our research points to terrifying conclusions,
Cryptids don’t exist but we believe in them.
We spawn marine reptiles in our minds.
We descend like Andean wolves, into the lower forests.
It might as well be that skunk-ape migrants of global warming
Indicate their degrees in theology.
It might as well be that being is bizarre,
Monsters of the lector unsolved in the sermon.
It might as well be that Chupacabras
Are devil dogs stirring the furnace of souls.
Perhaps a pharmaceutical apocalypse
Creates the condition for a mutant menagerie.
All we can say beyond a reasonable doubt:
They are the varmint of the malcontent
Who have peopled else, and are on the move.
Salvatore Ala, 29 sierpnia 2013
When everything is repaired with gold leaf
Good will shines brighter through our blood
Like a poem with golden seams or a living art.
So your favorite bowl shattered like the world,
Its pieces are still a bowl.
It could also be a more beautiful world.
Salvatore Ala, 10 lipca 2013
In so much rain the homeless drown,
If this rain was bullets they’d be children of massacres.
If this rain was petroleum coke we’d already be Pompeii.
If this rain was a pesticide we’d be innumerable bees
Found dead in parking lots round the world.
If this rain was plague we’d be shadows among Pharaohs.
If this rain was money we’d drink from the same well.
If this rain was food the hungry could eat their tears.
If this rain was love, hatred would dissipate like haze.
If this rain was peace, peace would water our lands.
If this rain was rage, God would haemorrhage
From a wound at least as mortal as our own.
Salvatore Ala, 16 czerwca 2013
My America is all Detroit, Motown, dancing in the streets, my girl,
Tropical heat waves and what becomes of the broken hearted after a riot.
My America is the 67 riot and flames above the city,
My America is the arrival of The National Guard, revolution in the air,
CKLW news and the “murder-meter” rising.
My America is The Spirit of Detroit and The Joe Louis Fist.
My America is Rosa Parks and visits by Martin Luther King.
My America is where the South was born after the South had died.
My America is getting out of neighbourhoods before dark.
My America is the auto industry and temporary-part-time wages.
My America is the war machine that beat back Nazis and fascists.
My America is the Vernors factory since 1866, Stroh’s Beer,
Jack Kevorkian and a suicide-assisted death at the end of an assembly line.
My America is rock concerts at Cobo Hall, jazz at Baker’s Keyboard Lounge,
Gang violence in the hypnotic haze of Thai stick and funk.
My America is all muscle cars and available parts.
My America is a union town with mob connections,
A road map that leads to Jimmy Hoffa, like a missing treasure.
My America is all Detroit, where my family lay in cemeteries around,
A border where half of me is standing and half in the ground.
Salvatore Ala, 5 lipca 2013
This is a poem that fills
The emptiness of a bowl.
This is also a poem
That empties the fullness of the bowl.
This is a poem.
Salvatore Ala, 8 kwietnia 2015
for Kenya
The cries of hyenas are human cries
The teeth of the lion are human
Jaws of crocodiles are human jaws
Our blood changes into venom
We destroy our own young
We hunt the young of others
We smell slaughter on the wind
Why then consider ourselves separate
If we walk in animal footprints
Why number our tribes
If migrations end in murder
Why give a name to creation
If the same wild God destroys it
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