Volume 1 « White Print Inc

Riding the Bus

ache beautiful
flicker flowers
Life passes, yes,
fast and sorrowfully.
Celestial clockworks spin
above our slowly proceeding vehicle,
but for this moment
- briefly -
we are all passengers.

Arise

Mark 5:41

Talitha
Cumi
Shhhhhhhh
Haaaaaaaaa
Ssssss
The breath
Ruah
Breathe
Hear the sounds of your mouth.
Focus on these.

Brothers! Sisters!
The flames eat skin, the smoke climbs up in puffs
Before it happens we see it happen
Pray me the Kaddish
My mother cries, her face is pain
Pray me the Kaddish
The babies’ bodies- piled in pits
Pray me the Kaddish
Six million of me are marched down to death
Blindfolded, open eyed
We accept that our family is murdered before us
My mother cries, she cries!
Now drive your cars and go off to work
Stare at electronic screens
But look,
Know,
How we have prayed
And pray

pray

Kaddish

Fana

Wading in first,
each palm, extended.

Where the wind, solitary
splits open and pours out
Blood, sap, and milk.
Cupping the hands beneath
the outpouring
the cool, warm
spurts of the gash.

Tree roots grow deep into the wet sand.
Eternity stirs in their marrow.
They fan out their fingers
And brush the red heart of the earth.

The clay is soft but the sun is hot .

Droplets seep into the cloth
The river’s edge laps at the hem.
Water ropes rise  and weave
around the body
Dancing,
Coursing,
Baptism.

Abandonment

Abandoned-meant

leaves
falls
stillborn child

When-her hurts

whole,
empty

empath–these

sur-rend at-ease

for-say-kin-dread

utter-leaves dread,

a just dessert.

Give up self,

hands upside
down molting from chicks’ bones
of discontent.

Withdraw

mirror’s picture when-doves die tiny eggshell white-
washes glass

breaking control
of image
yielding without restraint or moderation,
relinquished,

languish

unreleaved
winter-tree

James La Croix

Blood Money

“Where’s the money, Daddy?”
Ghost haunts my pockets.
Veins torn open fender.
Redhanded, roseblood

bloom. Pearl spasms broken
choker, of

James La Croix

Callipygian Haiku

Full moon odalisque,
Street light transubstantiated:
Sheets’ priestess.

James La Croix

Ode On A G-String

Birth of Venus on shell ears.
Kiss shucking lips from tongue swimming
the tropical sea mouths transubstantiate snail

Eyes wander
Fingers find Summer
Twin pale fruit purses overripe
love’s luxurious currency

Would-wind sigh music flesh-Braille
played pizzicato jazz honey
dew her twenty dollar
lap dance…

Time’s fingers flames
appropriate flesh and fossil
photo fetish raven hair

April’s greening orchard
beds Eve’s apples
bleeding

peels gilt of morning
steals gold rings
rolls them gone.
Time’s fingers flames
appropriate flesh and fossil
photo fetish raven hair

April’s greening orchard
beds Eve’s apples
bleeding

peels gilt of morning
steals gold rings
rolls them gone.

James La Croix

Teenagers

black and mild teenagers
smoke wine flavor
a .50 cent favor dawg
watch yo bike
got my shank
no thanks
got this lock & chain
not down
around my neck and back
for looking at
good lookin’
suns – out
you see
i see.

round here
men squat down
behind tv’s w/ no pictures
shit, see right threw it
& into a rubber universe
entirely incorporated
tieing it off
& tracking me down
eyes bloodshot, like needles
a mark huh
i see it.
& you see it too cuz

if i’m lying i’m flying & i’m not
i’m riding
right threw
algae green plasma pools
the finest Count
miss, the spring
petals free
i’m over this
bed of magnolias
sheet white – roll out
glide
fan my flame
& at my back – your back
the pavement
dive down, lie there
& stare up & away
still, in the streets
killing me softly
i forget the race
& trace a cloud
w/ a silver tip
forget paintin’ that bridge
i’m here.
& instead of riding up over &
into my head
i hear bees
while sirens seize
the peace
fuck it
sandbags in my way
pretending they’re not bodies
my dead
city lies in state
i see.
you see

ride on dawg
& smell that
life & death
in the murda cap
still blossoming
something fresh

Jhon Clark

the substitution
foot holds
small bone
notes,

pond eyes
eyes glass black
backwards
1

polarized?

find your depth.

a pale green folder
which says
anatomy on it.

a cloud is similar
to a sickle.

my your
empty swimming-pool
mouth

croak clock.

the hands went backwards
touching.

James Hart III, from 91