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Nobody Knows the Olmecs (Black)

José M. Tirado: South America looks away (Or yawns) though carrion-fed Studiers of cultures Anthropologists, Archaeologists, Scatatologists, Sociologists, Blind theologists, Dumb apologists all Know that Nobody knows the Olmecs, (Black).
olmec head

Nobody Knows the Olmecs (Black)

Nobody knows the Olmecs, (Black):
So stout, (so Black), so thick, (so Black),
So squat, (so Black), so fit, (so Black), so deep
So deep, so Africa deep (so Black),
So very, very not Indian, (Black).

South America looks away
(Or yawns) though carrion-fed
Studiers of cultures
Anthropologists,
Archaeologists,
Scatatologists,
Sociologists,
Blind theologists,
Dumb apologists all
Know that
Nobody knows the Olmecs, (Black).

The statues bare,
The statues still
The statues there in their stillness,
Still there,
How many crushed
For parking lots
Or offices?
How many stay unseen
Because they rip off blinders
With their (Black) presence,
Their misplaced placement (so Black)
Anomalies (Black) the
“they just can´t be there”
(they´re Black)?

No group of lies can talk away
Those faces (Black, so Black)
Where are they from? What world was theirs?
And … why is it not so tidy now?
The obvious Black (so African Black) heads
(Pyramid old)
Hidden, scattered thick, like jelly poured
Throughout a land with more than its share
Of bearded men
With tools
Unknown
And glyphs
Unknown
Still, nobody knows the Olmecs, Black:
So African Black,
So bothersome
Black.

South Beach Wedding Reception

He wore his discomfort without too
Much fanfare: much like the white guayabera and
The seafood entrées taken lightly
Back to the table.
The wine glasses shimmied as the table jerked crudely to the
Bumps and grinds on the floor. The lights suitably lowered,
The music, appropriately loud. Sparkles and strobes of joy
Were all in the air together.
The scourge of such parties—the Poet quickly walked headway into the night-
The air musty-wet and thick despite the sea´s proximity.
Above, the stars went through their usual business, below,
On the beach, mad torches held the gazes of the unseemly drunks
Heading out for the conspicuous coupling, all anticipated in advance.
A bride, bare feet, bosoms and blow-
“Life going straight down the garbage chute” he thought,
Dispersed into a thousand half-chewed fragments,
Unfaltering until they got swallowed somewhere else in the sea just out there.
He knelt to touch the sand and no mysterious urge grasped back,
No princely awakening under some ancient tree aroused,
He let the sand sift back through his faltering fingers
Cursing those who would interrupt Life to cast invitations his way
When churlish tears sought his quill instead.

iLife

In the iLife smells don´t matter
Eyes are flat
Tears never roll on your back
After a fight
And that hug of forgiveness never
Takes place,
In the iLife…

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In the iLife, the sea doesn´t sway,
The clouds never cover
The beach
And the sand never scratches your toes, no, not
In the iLife,
And children never build sandcastles
Only to wash them away when the waves
Rush in hungrily.

In the iLife there are no communities
And ideologies are shunned,
Buying the latest ear piece
Or happy app
Takes the place of all that matters
And all that matters are the apps and games
You can play to share with others
Living the iLife.

In the iLife no knees are skinned,
Broken bones don´t happen,
Band-aids are never needed,
No one ever gets tired of walking
(And no one ever strives for that other Ground)
Bikes aren´t used and skateboards are passé
Over in the iLife.

Deep in the iLife, forests aren´t mysterious,
Trees don´t whisper stories,
The fish don´t swim with bursts of manic freedom
And the pines don´t draw you down,
To sleep and face the dimming light of day
Until the stars gather force and shape your imagination
No, none of these events happen,
not in the iLife.

You brush your hand upon a screen
And touch another´s filtered hand,
Touching till the lie you live
Tells you you are
Fully alive,
In this iLfe.
But you aren´t.

Jose-M.-Tirado

José M. Tirado