a malty Nick Joaquin toast to all who've contributed to our little Renga series! one last hurrah for the last day of IntPoWriMo, shall we?
Renga Que Rico April 27 2009
There is beer and there are secrets
and we are not scared: real men
write poetry. I should have brought
a fucking pen. I should have brought my wits.
But neither pen nor wits can take away the crisp
taste of Pale Pilsen on a cool night
Putanginamogagokaulolhinayupaknahindot.
Now back to regular programming. I am
in the business of drinking, of real men
who need pens, who dream of realness--
the concrete, something graspable, like bottles
and paper, like this. What I mean to say is
I am struggling with the concept in reverse.
Wars are turning into children. Trace the warm
return to the womb. To the atom.
Then back to the wet cunt of motherhood
who said the owl is a beer, gray.
Anybody thinking otherwise remembers not
the initial wince from that first swig, most likely
in high school, and how most experimentations
lead to habit. I am smoking, drinking, recalling
what I shouldn't remember: kicking inside
my mother's womb and eager for life, breath,
beer and a birthday. Then more birthdays.
kael, waps, john, khavn, pancho, ramblingsoul, doug
Renga # 30
Soulward at high noon,
moon pools and slumbers
moon pools and slumbers
toward midnight, yesterday's end
and May's awakening.
and May's awakening.
kuwabatake, ramblingsoul
