Saturday 8 October 2022

Five Poems by Jake Tringali

 



how to pronounce wolf

 

so you’ve finally decided to recognize the wolf

and the two of you are alone

and you hope it’s not too late

 

a mere utterance may spook him,

so prepare for radical articulation

 

raise your hands and wrists

still yet unbruised

guard your windpipe

before it rings true

 

locate the blade of your tongue

 

fairy tales about wolves are based on truths

 

never cry

 

 


Poem - Untitled

 

good morning little peach: although you

may feel your flesh is tender and the sky

sad, remember: your pit is stony and

strong: you’ve never left your great and

mighty tree

 

and remember your relative: the rose

 

 

 

i just ate a columbian ant

 

this boston chef hands me a tiny black sphere

i expect peppercorn heat, the flames of a full life of a worker

popped onto my tongue, it is a only a hint of soft salt

we are all too small

 

 

 

The Villanelle of The Liege

 

he passed those tests of yours to subjugate

so you concoct some tasks more villainous

he paints your toenails as you dominate

the tea is ready and served sharp at eight

your ‘houseboy’ spilled the tea and now he must

sit still, and lock eyes, as you masturbate

 

your clit does twitch for this kneeling playmate

“my liege” he whispers, your eyes furious

this indiscretion seals his lowly fate

 

so your wet hand slaps your shameful mate

this servant doesn’t twitch or run or cuss

you catch: a gasp, a smile, that emanates

 

from the skilled mouth of a slave you lay claim,

his arms, his legs, his ass, his pretty face

bound, a uniformed possession, the late

 

hour is at hand so you hand him the leash

your toes pretty red, on top of his head

and think, here is a soul to cultivate

or copulate - or annihilate

 

 

 

The Shape and Wonder

 

There are too many shapes. I like a good square. There are too many shapes other than a square.

 

One two three four. Simple.

 

Some facts I know. There are 900,000 different types of insects. There are 1620 Earths inside Jupiter.  There are over 8 million pictures of avocados on Instagram.

 

Some other facts I know.  Post-traumatic stress disorder affects 200,000 adults in my home state.  There are 28 million children that have no home in this world.  The last pandemic killed nearly 6 million people while I was inside my home.

 

There are 8 billion people. They just cannot all be real. I’m told that they all have their own emotions, motives, shapes.

 

A googol is 10 times 10, but you do it 100 times. This is the number of subatomic particles in the universe. You are but a fraction of a fraction of a fraction.

 

When there are too many unknowns, and things shift randomly and violently, it is called turbulence, which happens to airplanes, which reminds me that airplane crashes killed 4500 humans in the past 10 years.  I think about their ruined human shapes.

 

There are sands on the beaches. There are stars in the sky. There are numbers that balloon and balloon until you feel like bursting.

 

The shape of the human brain cannot handle large numbers. A fracture is the cracking of a hard object. After a fracture, the shape of things has changed permanently.

 

I wonder what number is coming for me.  I wonder what statistical event is just outside my door.

 

These numbers are too large. I can only glance at it. Glance can also mean bumping off of something and carrying on in the same direction. Like a wind-up toy.

 

I know a quote from a book: “There is too much world.” - Czeslaw Milosz

 

My algebra class in grade school had 4860 square tiles. Every tile had 6 lines in it, subdividing into 9 more squares. I would focus on one tile for hours at a time.

 

A square is easy.




 

Jake Tringali - Thrives in a habitat of Boston dive bars, punk rock shows, and late-night adventures.  His first poetry book is Poetry for the Neon Apocalypse, which was nominated for an Elgin award.  Host of The Outskirts Poetry Podcast

 

No comments:

Post a Comment

Three Poems by Steve Klepetar

Changing So many women turned into trees  or reeds or weeping stones. There was a man bent over a pond  who became a flower. Another died  b...