“Bizzogksmia”

(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.