pio_jasso

"The only journey is the one within." - Rainer Maria Rilke

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  • pio_jasso 10w

    apple

    apple -
    perfectly
    enclosed cup,
    your brightness erupts
    and paints
    you red from tree
    to tree.

    they've crowned
    a river valley
    upon you
    and gave you
    a womb
    of soft sweet flesh
    that swells
    in the palms
    of hands
    hidden
    and rumbling
    beneath the core.

    when a single
    stemmed tree
    extends
    then our bodies
    open
    like apples
    on the kitchen table,
    and the earth
    receives
    its seed,
    and prepares
    for your return.

    like Da Vinci painting
    Mona Lisa
    and hiding
    her breast,
    the earth
    will hide you
    apple
    until it's time
    to shape you
    as a round planet
    destined
    to wax
    and to shine
    bright
    and red
    like a ripe
    desire
    tempting
    our kitchen tables.


    ©pio_jasso

  • pio_jasso 11w

    ode to a table knife

    table knife,
    life’s
    edge
    forged
    by fire’s
    most orange lake.

    from your mirrored
    face
    of steel
    you still
    reflect
    the paleolithic
    prophecy
    of your crude
    ancestors:

    the chipping
    flint
    and the hand axe:
    both used
    to sustain life,
    both stained
    in the blood
    and hunt of ritual,
    to remain
    as rust, spotting
    your shiny
    smooth blade.

    and now,
    you hide
    in silence
    in the kitchen drawers,
    resting flat
    and impassive
    on the eating tables,
    as though
    you were innocent.

    in the hands
    of grandmothers
    you are kind
    and deliberate.
    you cut to feed
    but never to fatten.

    in the hands
    of parents
    you hang
    like the sword
    of Damocles,
    dangling
    over uneaten peas.

    and like the sword
    of Solomon,
    you threaten
    to halve all things
    into equal shares,
    disrupting
    nature's
    natural
    imbalances.

    in the hands
    of the child
    you cut quick,
    and scrape
    and squeal
    like a pig
    running
    from a band
    of hungry,
    hunting pygmies.

    but the table knife
    in the hands
    of politics,
    always slices
    life so thin
    and indelicate,
    like delicatessen
    meat.

    can you stay
    sharp
    and still
    broaden
    your blade enough
    to carve
    more generous
    portions
    for the poor?

    for without food
    on our plates
    to cut,
    you remain
    flat and silent
    in our drawers,
    and absent
    from our tables,
    lifeless
    as a silver bass,
    rotting
    in the basin
    of a dry lake
    where you shall
    remain forever guilty.

    ©pio_jasso

  • pio_jasso 11w

    the city

    you take shape
    in the shadows.
    you take shape
    in the spaces
    where the rats
    and the roaches
    copulate,
    and the trash cans
    overflow
    with plastic,
    sour milk,
    and funky
    red meat,

    in the space
    where babies
    sleep on pool tables,
    and mothers
    push funerals
    in broken strollers.

    your belly
    is a pouch,
    a marsupial,
    festering
    with the rapes,
    and the murders
    you've swallowed
    whole.

    a fetus
    floats
    in the soup.
    and hair
    and teeth
    and nails
    settle in the coffee.

    you
    are a slippery
    dark
    ghosted place.
    and your traffic lights
    bleed.


    ©pio_jasso

  • pio_jasso 11w

    Questions

    Is it real,
    or a figment
    or a mist
    or a wraith?

    Is it a soft
    clayed thought
    contrived;
    vitrified
    in the factitious
    kiln
    of memory,
    glazed
    untrue?  

    Did it ever really
    happen?


    ©pio_jasso

  • pio_jasso 13w

    have u ever?

    have you ever lived
    in a box
    of crackers,
    across the stark
    buffet of an almost meal?

    do you know the taste
    of not today,
    the taste of maybe
    tomorrow,
    the flavor
    of not really ever?

    well it tastes
    like rocks
    lodged in the pit
    of all you know,
    blocking
    the flow of hope,
    writing recipes flavoured
    in never.

    have you ever really lived?


    ©pio_jasso

  • pio_jasso 13w

    i fell into a lake of poems

    walking and lost in
    mind,
    i fell into
    a lake of poems.
    more of an ocean
    than a lake,
    it was a
    deep water of words,
    a vast expanse
    of verses,
    flowing
    like a current
    pulling me
    into its
    purgatory drift.
     
    i seized with
    panic
    as a rush of poetry
    filled
    my lungs.
    is this my death?
    this drowning
    in words,
    this floating
    in a bloated grave
    of metaphor
    and
    simile
    and meaning?
     
    unable to swim,
    i sank into
    a hole
    at the bottom
    of the lake,
    as grammar
    gathered
    like sand
    and syntactical
    sediments
    formed
    an uneven floor.
     
    i stood,
    wobbling
    and walking
    over
    grammar
    like a toddler,
    slipping
    on the slopes
    of commas,
    falling into deep
    parentheses,
    and climbed on
    the top of question marks
    to escape.
     
    i traveled for
    a time
    on an even patch
    of periods
    when syntax’s
    shrewd terrain
    trapped me once again.
     
    still, i marveled
    and watched as
    solitary letters
    floated by
    like tiny fish,
    forming words
    into colorful species
    of meaning,
    schooling into lines,
    and forming neat, like meters.
     
    then led by a single word,
    the letters
    wiggled away,
    like a string,
    disappearing
    into a swift
    wavy
    blue-green mist.
     
    other words
    shoaled into poems,
    fat and complete,
    floating
    like slow moving coral,
    or stayed unmoving,
    as a millennia
    of rocks.
     
    a strong feeling
    washed over me,
    and I felt the
    eyes
    staring through the
    watery fog.
     
    and as sudden
    as a punch pulled
    short,
    a tiny poem
    bright
    as a goldfish
    popped out of nowhere,
    appearing flushed
    against my face,
    suspended
    in mid-air.
     
    we stared at
    each other in disbelief,
    and the tiny poem
    lingered
    as if it had
    something to say,
    but as quickly
    as it had appeared
    it swam away.
     
    the water
    grew murky:
    as viscous
    as syrup,
    thick and mixed
    with meaning.
    only shadows
    moved now as
    the colors
    collapsed into
    a grayish-green hole.
     
    i sensed i had gone too deep,
    perhaps
    perilously deep,
    to the bottom
    beyond
    the grasp of all
    meaning
    and syntax,
    beneath
    a wavy existence
    where even symbols
    risk drowning.
    and a solitary question
    swam
    beside me
    as a fish:
    where am i?

  • pio_jasso 13w

    midnight hunter

    Beneath a starry sky,
    the bird
    stalks the midnight pond.
    His eyes in
    a hooded-glare
    carried the moon
    like a ship
    sailing
    across
    two lethal seas.

    Covered in black,
    feathered in
    shadows,
    crouching into a
    water biting stance,
    he listens
    intensely
    to the movements
    swishing and
    swirling
    as if stirred,
    wetly
    by a spoon,
    beneath the surface
    inside the womb
    of the dark
    whispering waters.

    In a bladed salvo
    of claw
    and beak
    and wings,
    it stabs,
    slicing
    long deep gashes
    into the face
    of the pond,
    blinding
    the waters
    with shredded stars.

    His beak twisting
    and turning,
    shaking off
    the foggy night,
    as he ripped
    from the boggy
    fabric
    the bubbling rush
    of a fish
    now buried
    in a grave
    of gnashing jaws,
    swimming
    from red flesh
    to death
    down the long throaty
    coffin
    of the bird.

    As it swelled,
    it seared
    in a flame of wings,
    stepping
    into
    the air,
    hugging
    the approaching wind,
    unfolding
    its span,
    rising
    into the clouds,
    mighty
    and high
    then shifting
    into a fading,
    flapping,
    moon-circled
    silhouette,
    like the pupil of an eye.


    ©pio_jasso

  • pio_jasso 13w

    Acturus

    The golden bell
    stirred
    the brown-eyed
    sleeping
    sunflower
    now awoken to
    a reaching sky,

    sliced aglow
    in a yoga pose
    of rainbows,
    bending high
    in a bright bowed
    asana of lights.

    The flower
    now transfixed,
    pierced by sound,
    marveling
    over the orange
    songs of a bird

    whose melodies
    took flight
    like minor rising
    stars,
    still bright,
    rising to sing
    in the distant ear
    of Arcturus.


    ©pio_jasso

  • pio_jasso 14w

    ode to a vacuum cleaner

    i’m told that nature abhors a vacuum,
    for without you
    there’d be more nature
    in the house:
    slivered twigs,
    crumbled leaves,
    and dried withered
    spider bodies.

    dirt is your cocaine.
    and like a train
    you leave raised
    tracks like history
    in the carpet.

    addicted
    to an allegiance
    of clean,
    you hoard
    the four corners:
    a hoover -
    hovering,
    leaving nothing
    for clean
    white socks to collect.

    member
    of the family electric,
    you stand quiet
    and compliant
    in the corner,
    the corner
    where the children
    no longer stand,
    then your sound
    drowns out
    the room
    like the whirling
    blur of a thousand
    blenders.

    culture
    and machine,
    made
    from human hands,
    hands
    the preacher said
    god made
    from dust.
    ‘from dust thou art’,
    said he, 'and unto dust
    shalt thou return.’

    return to whom?
    to be born anew
    as the accumulated treasure
    in you: me –
    a man
    returned to dust?


    ©pio_jasso

  • pio_jasso 14w

    rain

    he searches
    himself,
    under
    the dimmest
    of lights,
    surrounded
    by cold
    dark echoes.

    and every shelter
    he seeks
    becomes
    peopled
    with wolves
    on the broken
    river
    of reeds.

    quiet he prays,
    folding
    like a flower,
    lost
    in the woods
    of blood
    and booze
    and the poisonous
    exile of rain.


    ©pio_jasso