A Letter FROM The Forgotten god

July 17th, 2015 by George Martorano

Dear George,

It is I, Forgotten god. And though it takes much time, I do receive your letters, truly, and I thank thee for remembering, I, your old friend. For you George are my only friend. Thus, I write this with the utmost heart warmth. That I do pray for you. Yes, I pray in my own way. I speak so. I speak to the farthest star placed out in vast universe; a star that exists in a remote void. This lastly star has one side of traveling-light ,the opposite, epitome’s darkness; for there is nothing beyond that dark side. A side that remains with eternities’ sorrow. Of, this, my words go. I pray down down to the deepest part of all seas. And there beneath an ancient, shell, a shinning shell of radiant colors never seen nor ever shifted by current. I pray to it; for it is where mankind’s loneliness was born. For in these unknowns this knowledge of abandonments, I know lies strangeness’s strength. These prayers I do for you George; so that courage challenged is always faced by you..

For I know you as a true poet, the words that you write say so. Expressing that you have swallowed the very last whiskey upon earth, that it lies in your stomach, it is your ‘tomorrow’s fire’.

Pah ! For my fury drools anger at the keepers of thee. Pah to them! Pah! George by the letters you send me, the languishing year to year of prison life you relay in them. I feel your shadow does not touch you anymore. For your body is pinned under prison. Yet, your thoughts are unwrinkled as a thin sheet of the finest gold. Yes, your sentences in those letters lay bare much to me. Lay bare as thus, you as if a shimmering pond just there, hidden with in a mountain ravine but when evening’s dark blankets all, is no longer crystal blue. And that you take-heed to misery. Your soul giving birth to itself out of prison night only to wake to each break-of-day. Wake as a single wave of dawn’s light, letting your spirit give off sun’s gloss. Tis your own way of living, ‘exhaling of scars’, knowing you can go on and on.

Pah! I curse them all, for they are blind to such a one as you. Pah!… Aah and oh of love. Love they tore from your touch. No love half thy life-span. Left with your caged mind branded with horizon’s, desert-thought called ‘longing’. Oh friend, brother, I truly pray of you to become her ‘Wants-Stone’; dropped so into a unknowing beauty’s pocket and carried off where she caresses thee evermore.

George, George, best to when that certain silence drifts thee. When you only hear boots cross thy heart….Pah to them all! Pah to the 4th world known as prison! For before one such as you will come’th to kneel before stained ground. I know that deep with in you a cry calls to forgive all those who chain you. To pardon the key-holders who are compassion-dead. Left to be shot through and through with conciseness’s-bullet labeled ‘uncaring’; left to bleed cold emotion down to concrete floors.

Pah !….I shout at the prison cell where our letters enter and exit through steel slot; those cells as if a village of lined-up coffins…. And only you George to lead those condemned far far away from their festering hate. And you immured the longest; only to guide the punished to self-hope and no more…. I hear, oh yes I hear in my way that simple prayer you give upon those numbered men all in a row…. row after row after row. A prayer as if gathered, repeated from the poorest on earth; saying it again and again, soft and aligned from who knows where from with in you..

So, as you pray, so I, for thee friend George and till our letters gallop forth, farewell; till the kiss of freedom brushes so your lips, farewell….Always and always, Some Forgotten god

By: George Martorano
Copyright: 12973

Fresh Prisoner

July 17th, 2015 by George Martorano

Over the immured years and at many penitentiaries; I was, and have been locked in oh so many of cells. There were, are times in the wee-hours of dark-night. That another prisoner was shoved into my cell. I awake, prepare for who knows what, talk or fight. It is the way of things and no more….Yet, I write thus to relay of a certain prisoner that came to cell-13 one stormy night long ago. Yes, as rain, thunder and lightening commenced….He came….The rain so hard it stopped vision. Thunder so loud, its’ sky-ward roar seemed to shake stone. Aah, and when those silver-fire of lightening bolts came down, straight as if spears meant to kill…. So, I sat on the edge of the bunk. The fresh prisoner, there, across from me. The last sound after moment’s thunder was the bang of the cell door….This prisoner of average height, thin, prison clothes still wet stood there, stared at me and I him with only the talk of silent eyes and nothing more. Then, a strange thing. For I turned my head, not much, just a turn….Once, my stare was back upon him. He was painting. Yes, painting on canvas with a brush upon an easel. With the very, first strokes, the cell became a sealed tomb, nothing in it: no sink, no toilet, no bunk, nor nothing of what a prisoner owned, nothing. Only a tomb that I was encased in with he that paints…. I opened my mouth to speak. He quickly stopped painting, glared my way, my mouth snapped shut. So, he painted…. I watched. Yet, the only color applied; and I had to step closer through special darkness to realize, was, the color ‘black’. Yes, he only painted in black…. As I looked on. The blackness began to fill my eyes with much awe. In that pitch I saw beauty. I saw horror. I saw the sweetest love known to man…. Upon his canvas things kept changing. I saw a fierce, unrelenting battle between Angels and grotesque beast; much blood-letting, the gray-black grass held the dead and the undying and in the very center of the mayhem was a golden Bible being offered up to the Heavens’ by hacked off limbs. I saw a vast, emerald rolling sea, felt the spray of it against my face. I saw a forest of tall, strange trees, hearing wind charge through the leaves. I saw a gay city, its’ lights, came laughter and a small, sleepy town where a woman knelt in prayer as a church bell tolled. I saw the old and the child in hunger. I saw and even smelled an enchanted, beauty’s long, lovely, auburn hair, her eyes beckoned me so, her soft, red lips aroused me, whispering in my ear. I saw all and everything of life I ever wished and dreamt of and for…. In time as the hours passed, my eyes grew heavy. His free hand reached out and caressed my hair….saying,” I promise these things: the clouds will bleed, from the bowels of prison you, yes you shall be known for all time “….And I wept….Then, out of nowhere, I felt the warmest blanket upon me; warmed by morning sun….

Dawn touched my eyes first, then my mind…. I was alone in the cell, a cell again. And as I laid curled up upon my bunk, I knew. I truly knew who was the greatest painter on moving-earth….HE….Satan.

By: George Martorano
Copyright: 12973

Ceilings, My Only Sky

July 4th, 2015 by George Martorano

There she is, Ovette, on a street. It’s summer, on “the” step with one or two others, the inhale of cigarettes, a bit of laughter…. Come season’s cold she sits alone holding a cup of soup. After each slurp; a mongrel dog stares up and pants. And through it all, thoughts drift up from her soul as Ovette scratches words on stone with nail file…. Words of her own.

Ceilings, My Only Sky

This spot, hidden from the street light’s “give”,
Back to wall, high heels and all
Comes lust in garment, passion to disrobe,
The price is set, sweat’s living bread
Mere perfumed air, that’s the boulevard here

Pennies for Men
Like a copper coin dropped into sea,
Floating down down never to be found
Short skirt, low-cut top, brings needs’ rest,
The night and I, small talk, hush hush, the quick good bye

Paris where, Harlot, was born
The sidewalk, same beat, flesh,the forgotten repeat
My cross to bare,young, pretty and poor,
Police to pay, old lady to sew,
Winter’s dread, soup, wine and wind, nothing really said,
Of girl-friend so so thin, the very worst end

Pennies for men
A curb in the night, smell of garlic, breath of wine,
The small room to pay, oh, the lay lay lay
But, I do speak to God, church-candles to light,
Saying, “the dream I can not feed anymore, only me”

Just pennies for men
Divorced from day, choose sweet-shadow in the dark,
Always strangers, a smile, a lie or two
My Devil’s Island, Paris is,
Is, each and every Paris night
Pennies for men….Ovette’s sad life

By: George Martorano
Copyright: 12973

The Ebb of Existence

July 4th, 2015 by George Martorano

The trees were as if, world. Just seen and seen forest in every direction of eye, mind and belief. This time of year, fall, the blend of it began, became a new lover to each and every shade. I changing of dress-color to complete delight. Natures statement of showing any living artist ,that, you know nothing….And in this realm of orange, brown,of yellow’s dying and mixed green…. Was a line drawn, imprinted into rock and mud. A corridor going and going as if any living thing traveling along it, surely must perish. And the growth that walled this corridor, stood as a high alignment as if parted sea.

A forever line of wood and steel. A creation by mans’ sweat, grunts, birth and death. The hundreds and hundreds of lives that are born yet meant to be throw away. The short lives of the poor. Yes, the poor who built the track. A repeat of set and set of beam; the straight of the iron after iron, again and again. Year after year until one end of the Tsar’s empire connected with the other end of Russia. And upon the track. The train. Mostly a movement of horror. Moving the condemned far far from any dwelling of warmth, of human touch or care…. For, they, will never smile again.

No one knows how he got there. The man I mean. Not old nor young. Just a man of some age. There, sitting on the rail. Just he alone, alone with the vastness of trees before and behind him. Yes, he sits…. Hair long and dark, dirty, tangled from life’s misery and all prepared by the assault of seasons. Broken work boots, toes sticking out, feeling leather feeling ground. Layers of clothes, a tarp of animal skin for covering, and the smell.

As he sits, he stares down at the small space before him…. Maybe he fell from a train. Maybe thrown. Or maybe walked to world’s end; just to join the beat of his heart….He does not move, will not. For he has come to an abyss state of mind . A total cleansing of the lowest, blissness of thought. For the days that he sat. He heard sounds of deep night and bright day. Where wind came down the endless track and swirled up his nose, down down to the well of lung. Where passing creature small and large took the time to voice hate. Yes, he is in his portioned dark-heaven on condemned earth. And wishes to wish of no more.

His right hand finally moves, enters cloth upon him; ignoring bits of food, ignoring pouch of drink…. The hand gently comes out with a worn photo. A girl, a lovely girl. He moves more, places the photo up against the other rail across from him; uses a small stone to brace….After the movement he goes back to how he sat…. Sits and stares at her with memory’s look .His mind then creates, making his lips move ,formed in silence; for he counts each and every drop of sweat upon her from his love.Love he and she made upon a bed of straw. Where next to them upon wooden crate , a chunk of bread , a tin of wine .His mind adds moon light through patched opening, giving little glow, aah,but made her blush. To kiss ,touch and thrust as if each exhausting minute was pleasing death ,there, on peasant’s inherited earth.The love of the poor and simply no more.

Maybe it was the next night or the one after. When an evil gust blew. Taking up the photo beneath immense stars, stealing it away and away…..Then, he stood, breathed a deep, silent cursed at and for the very center of all humanity….

Alas…. He walks for forest. He is singled out from all man. Where every poem ever written of and for loneliness; can not express he…. Going, his eyes reveal suffering, the ancient telling of it, which can only be found on cave walls. Yet, there, just there in his look, is an ageless understanding of what he’s become. Become but deep, self-strange and at peace unto all with in himself.

Once within great foliage…. he is engulfed….And only God hears the press of his feet.. upon.. the..pine.

By George Martorano
Copyright: 12973

The Bare Embrace { 1908 }

July 4th, 2015 by George Martorano

‘My name is Mary. I am far far from home, England. Now, I sit in sand, a world of sand. And write this, I must ! After, I will just toss the letter to the air. Let the desert wind take it. There is no sea here, no bottle, its’ cork, for the letter to float along ,be found from fate then read. No, let the desert’s wind take it forever away. You see, the tomorrows are not mine any more only this, this and him.

‘My name is Mary. My husband and I came to the desert in a foreign land, to visit, for business. I first saw ,him, in the local eatery as we dinned. Nathan, the handsome, desert soldier, an American, enjoying himself with legionnaire friends. Our eyes met, after that….I could not stop looking at him. In a short time , with life’s strange, wheel of intervention, we became lovers. I shall not, will not live without him. So, my husband discarded me. So, I sit on this part of earth’s ageless, desert floor and write; wait for him on march-patrol to come back, come to me.

‘My name is Mary. It is night. The few electric lights of the small town are there in short distance. The bed in the small room waits. Like I wait, wait for his lips, arms, touch,oh the touch. I dress is as the poor bohemian. For I am a person that Love has destroyed, yet reborn. Born as a single flower in endless sand. When I am with him. Lover. I do not care. His kiss is life.

‘My name is Mary. As I finish this letter. The warm desert wind must know. It sands blow harder, my hair whips, eyes forced downward…. I stand, hold the letter out with finger tips…. My heart beats….” Nathan, Nathan “…. And the paper lifts, flips and sails sails away…. ‘

“My name is Mary
Where nothing lives….
Love grows

Where nothing lives
Sweet sweat in the night
His heart commands,
To knees I fall,
the, LOVE, conquers all

My name is Mary”

By: George Martorano
Copyright: 12972