Explode: Epic Poetry

By E. Maria Shelton Speller

Postmodern fiction is the quintessential question -- elusive as the answer for the meaning of life or the 21st Century response to Langston Hughes rhetorical question, What happens to a dream deferred does it fester and soreor explode?

The found art in Explode are poesy movements: Dada, (Contrapposto poets succumbing to peaches Dogs suspended like meat in Seoul.) The imagery is an installation of words in broad brushstrokes, (White horses straddled the hull, and Ishmir smiled at me, when a glass of tea, shifted on his tray.) Sounds like Jazz, (See Sisyphus scorn at amber headlights in Paris dew skin seeking skin and birds seeking the flutter-of-feathers.) Looks like Impressionism, (This day of rest I worship Santa Barbara and the celestial trip I straddleTo be able to dry my canvassed toes with the heat of Golden Pecan And the fervent chill of observation.) Expressionism, (On the Orange Line I saw dog paws tattooed on her thigh and red daisies on her boots My prism came from within and landed on my skin.) Realism, (Chronos eating children again, consuming, regurgitating, the piss Ellison smelled in the hallway, the blood he saw at the top of the stairs,) and Surrealism, (In random chimera conceits I think of blue nights and black mornings the full moon in the white Winter sky, with pink Cirrus lips, demons and febrile mouths, Rimbaud, and blackbirds in epic simile, Squirrels that wait for green lights.)

Explode is art responding to poetry and poetry responding to art in esoteric beginnings and sublime endings. Imagine, Octavio Pazs elucidation of modern art, ... a frankly truthful work, opening out like a fan. Explode is practical beauty necessary Word.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 27, 2004
• ISBN: 9781468514377

E. Maria Shelton Speller

Author E. Maria Shelton Speller, spent the early part of her career in the United States Air Force; BFA with honors from Northeastern University is a member of ZICA Creative Arts and Literary Guild and Boston’s own Zone Poets.  Published by Arula Records, “Spoken Live at the Lizard Lounge!”  Featured reader at the Lizard Lounge, the Cantab, and Squawk Coffeehouse, Cambridge MA; Duomo, Berkeley CA; Carol’s Books, Sacramento CA, Bohemian Cavern, Washington DC; Studio 15, Brentwood MD and has read on Brandies University Radio and the Underground Radio in Cambridge MA. Resides in Washington DC.

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© 2004 E. Maria Shelton Speller.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/16/04

ISBN: 1-4184-3436-1 (sc)

ISBN: 1-4184-3437-X (dj)

ISBN: 1-4685-1437-7 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

One Single Act of Love

Queen

A Valentine for Angela

Fun Espresso

Istanbul

(In Medias Res)

The Orange Line I

The Orange Line II

Chinatown

Transition…

Miles Language

The Godforsaken

Libido #2

Picasso ~ The Bohemian*

Pigs and Prophets

Triptych Some Syncretism

MLK was Here

I Know Now

Zoon

On the First Rung of Eros

Pilgrims

Legs

1999 House -- Shout Out!

Donatello, Crazy Horse and Diana

Morning Sojourn

Dystopia

Lover’s Chant

Go Mandingo!

Behind Pushkin’s

Coffee House

God hood

About the Author

I’ve been inside Giovanni’s Room with Yukio Mishima and the Subterraneans, in Dada with Marcel Duchamp, in love always with The Supremes, listening to Ryuichi Sakamoto, Erykah Badu and Bob Dylan’s Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie, remembering Edie, Tina Chow, and Miles Davis, reading Camille Paglia’s Sexual Personae, Octavio Paz, Toni Morrison and Raymond Williams again... taken with Rage Against the Machine, wondering if Me’Shell Ndege’ Ocello can do it again, (Do you think she would do it for the girls in pink - in the trenches? I need a poet with bass on her breast-plate, a siren in space...) still wanting a Fat Boy, black Lab, or a Short-haired German Pointer -- and finally to open the perfect art cafe/salon soon…

Nudedcendg (a.k.a. E)

Explode is dedicated to

my Mother

Catherine McCants Dasher Shelton

my Son

Xerxes Horatio Speller

my Grandson

Darius

and my Father

James Johnny Hop Bryant Shelton

(because I sprang from his loins)

We were meant to be -- because we happened.

Cover: Foxy Brown’s Fox Boogie, artist E

One Single Act of Love

I sold a rock opus to the best

Black rock band on the planet.

A band that lost it’s capacity

to dream.

Formulaic guarantees

skewed their imagination for

platinum discs.

The male coward covered

their lifework, literally.

My story reminded them of what

‘rushing’ felt like, how complete,

how deep blushing could be obvious.

And they bought it, and produced it.

And it was good -- it was better

than good. It was thought provoking

and it was an African-American

affirmation of our realities and our

fantasies no matter how unrealistic.

Suddenly, they were very significant

and the world truly believed that

rock music is black music and black

music is everything. Power is

aesthetic. Aesthetics is politics

and being black is philosophical

and our philosophy is phenomenology

and being black, is being real...

No Hip Hop could say as much as

this rock opus did, ever--no matter

how many stories they sampled.

So, this black rock band were

crowned kings and were exulted,

and revered, incandescent icons,

the envy of friends, the

consumption of man, the image

of immortality like the stained-

glass heaven you summon before

you close... And they loved me...

I was the wick in their candle-

stick and without me there was

no burning flame. I was the

source of their energy. I was

the unstained virgin encamped...

When we huddled over a page it was

a psychological bristling, a pathological

fear, a sexual entreaty.

I wanted them, and they wanted

me. So when opportunity knocked,

I told them so. Sooner than anyone

imagined, there was nothing more

important, than our collaboration.

The media was our medium. They

stopped referring to me as a writer,

and started calling me a Love Supreme.

Annie Leibovitz wanted to take our

pictures--together. But, there was

something unnatural about the photo

session. Instinct was lacking.

There was a tame and conspicuous

outsider on camp. After taking

off too many shades, we asked

Annie to come back tomorrow and

blamed our ubiquitous danger on

some tribal angst about picture

taking and soul stealing...

When she was gone, I suggested

that they fuck me...

Not unlike the man in the movie

and the dancing whore... My

honest response to the love

between us left them exposed.

So exposed, their breath rushed

past their lips in staccato

proportions. Although they all

did, the one that really cared

about me began to pace the room.

His eyes watched how his feet

travailed. Another, would have taken me

right then and there had we been

alone--he would have used his

shoestrings and tied my thumbs

behind me if that were all he had

But he was not the only

one I wanted, so he waited

anxiously. Another, had the

strange and curious stare of an

intellectual trying to figure me

out. And the other, simply smiled

at me from some private place, now

public, and I knew he would hurt me...

deliberately. The intellectual asked

me if I really thought it would make

a difference, and I couldn’t help

watching him as if he were some...

clear liquid. How could it not

make a difference? The pacer turned

and admitted he cared and said he

could not and would not participate;

furthermore, he did not think it

should happen. The anxious one

stood and started barking at him.

If I moved in any direction, it

would be provocation for premature

ejaculation and the anxious one,

while still barking would be the

first to straddle me...

If I raised my hand or my voice,

they would think I might change

my mind. Trapped, I sat there

watching this frenzy I’d started.

The air grew hot but I did manage

to express, All or no one. They

turned to look at the one who cared.

He looked at me, and I decided

that he would be the one that

would hurt me... deliberately.

And because he cared, because

he was the one holding back,

he would have to be the first.

He would have to get his

reservations out of the way so that

they could proceed. "It’s on you

man." Said the intellectual and

then I decided the intellectual

would be the last one. Was I

afraid? I was practically trembling

on that single futon. My

laptop at the head of the bed

would have to be moved--gingerly.

The point was, I slept with my

work, I ate with my work and now

I’d fuck my work--but we would

never tell Annie the latter.

"What the fuck is the matter with

you?" The one who cared blasted

at me. Oh, I thought, he would

fuck me angrily--he would punish

me this way...

All I had to say was something

stupid like, ‘What the fuck is

the matter with you?’ Then,

giving him an excuse to