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and other private rituals of the 21st century zine

and other private rituals of the 21st century zine

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Published by Mai'a Williams
poetry and collage zine. and other private rituals of the 21st century...
poetry and collage zine. and other private rituals of the 21st century...

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Published by: Mai'a Williams on Feb 07, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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contracts into a fist the heart is a lonely hunter but i am coming for you in the midst, said you'd be back in a minute. Forget it. Now you are in the concrete block bereft, sailor, you hated when i told your story but now whose words are left?

sometimes only the broken know how to be an angel

My daughter is talking to me, the dust storms rattle the trees against the windows, she keeps asking me questions that i cant answer why is it purple what is music what is wrong

the wave you are riding is crashing into me. I am more questions than answers. more more breath than body

Love letters angry letters disappointed letters, your letters are digital sparkles flashing across the black black sky, ifi keep writing letters to you, will they keep you alive?

you asked me once, you dont believe i have a soul? No, you are one.

You said you wouldnt steal from me again. You said. And then you walked out of my room with a shard of a pn?mise. Cause you cant break something thats already a million pieces on the floor.


Could the birds fly on sand storms, rack against the building, and crash into the Bum their feathers. And sing a song of joy.

red roses on the bed, the pink pattern on the mattress bleeding off the edges, your fmgerprints on the carpet, the traces of your breath on the mirror when you check your image. So vain. You can tell from the details.

Look through the keyhole, turn gold into sand into stone and throw it at the dead bodies beside the road.

These are the left over images after a dozen poems and photographs run through my fmgers and on the ground.

Ginger tea in the morning. Marijuana on the desk. Dresses slung over the chair. All waiting for your glass of coffee, othman papers, shoes under the closet.

Could your love still be here hiding under a flyaway paper? The tree scrapes against the window pain. One more image left.

, .


~blue light peaks into the windows at night and calls up the spirits of the awakened and hits the chest like an arrow eye of the sparrow. it moves on.

somewhere there are birds hungry hunting dead leaves. somewhere the stars are nuclear bombs flying " into the india ink sky.

somewhere you are the pauper prince the aquamarine paint on the back of a canvas call it a sea but you cant swim in it so spray paint it gold and ask for my words to make your paper heart whole .


somewhere there is ~ room where i am human too like you i bite my lips when the skin is chapped and

rub my hands when <they are cold and hope that the stars havent changed positions and i can find my

~~~ 7 •

somewhere there is a letter that says, this is where i belong. somewhere i am pulling the arrow out and you are pushing inside of me. grey shadows o~the sun half a red pill like a broken valentine a green beer a cream yellow table a black nail a hammer for a tongue.

a lonely place but at least paper valentine hearts float by like trash on the nile. &on &on &on

On waiting for your lover in prison and other private rituals of the 21 st century

my only time in jail was the week before obama's inauguration. they say hope is an aphrodisiac falling out of love

beer glass next to lighter, plastic beads in one hand, pen in the other. flip a lucky in the back of the pack, shoo a flyaway with a burning tip inhale let the soul slip

i flip three coins ask who will my lover be once he emerges from the other side! still pay attention to this little lady who used to write poems about suicide?


My eyes open to charred face, following the sky, lets make an adventure cause this morning we ride the wind, its our fate

Hearts break when you use them as bait, trying to catch the sun cause the sun always escapes the black bars of paradise

call to prayer sends me a text message, look out your window. its one more sunrise


when youthink of me think balance crescent moon recitations, the final hours of sleep

my arm covering my mouth and you peeling me away dropping this carcass on the floor, i want to hear you, you groan before you catch that last bus to the horizon stretching like a rosary a cross and skull counting out the days til you return

me, dust slamming against the trees your soul as thin as paper leaves

.. '


cairo, egypt

guerrillamamamedicine. word press . com

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