(this poem was spaced for rhythm and pause...alas, maybe I should start a new blog! I keep asking myslef why I write? If for fame and glory, I might as well stop. If for self-reflection and fun, write on! If for the hope to be heard and understood, well, that is out of my hands (and in your, dear reader) internal ears :)
“Bizzogksmia”
no idea how to
spell
it, maybe
it isn’t even a word, is
it a phrase?
German woman in Guatemala
we ate fried plantains
and corn tortillas. thwack
thwack
thwack
Hands smacking rhythmically
flattening maize into delicious circles
hypnotic, relaxing, comforting, steady beat…
BANG!
Plates clattering, startled, we freeze.
“Pound ze table ven jou say eet!” she was:
Harsh.
Intense.
Demanding.
our words
falling
too
softly
on her German ears.
Schooling us to say something sexual, I swear. begging
to be satisfied.
It means “Take me now!” she explains, in a hurry,
wild
passionate
lust overcoming all senses.
I hear her voice, sometimes, in
my head.
no. not if I want to
get laid.
more
as in:
“Bizzogksmia!”
The pounding.
The frustration.
The anger at the futility of relentless desirousness.
rage
kind of meaning.
tiny snippets from amorphous soul
talk.
Each language carries so much. Such
intricate keys into what makes us
humans.
Ich liebe dich.
To love with
the depth of glottal
vibration.
My last
name
is
German,
I’m still not sure if any
of
meine Seele is.
