from AMA: a book of poetry

Hzal Anubewei
June 2021

A CAN OF BEANS

Nowhere to run
even a thousand miles away
my son’s enemies’ bullet penetrated
fixed his face.
blood in the beans
dripping from a neck wound
Open
the beans momma.
Daddy ran through the house
A
letter of evidence attached to his hands
too much weight for one hand
Momma
listen the letter screamed
the kitchen screamed too
Silently
a knife cut her finger
the can of beans hit the floor
where was the announcement of warning
where was the wind that proceeds death
momma’s world was so still
nothing was moving
the image of her son arriving in a cold box
the date of his history fixed forever
Daddy’s torment no more beans.
they gripped each other
turning themselves into a single knot
no more bloody beans
never again
never again

DRUGGED

Some
think it makes them the lover all adore
so many hitched it takes them for a ride
I
have seen arms that haven’t reached
for
human warmness in years
back to old days of a child in a shack
girl and boy marchin’ solemnly to bare rooms
or
alleyways spilling their guts
thoughts circling in their heads
their last drop of blood going for a nickel
I
remember a pitiful mother attempting grace.
Her daughter found well chewed on a street up north.
a chilly touch
a penetrating look at millions living the blur
of
too many empty days.
hours spent mistakenly on legs that do the wobble.
better actors than any I have ever seen
They have been trying to die
since
they hit that beach…

THE ROOM

What
is the name of the room
where
the heart lives?
Is it warm
joyful
full of light
Or
arrows of ice
flying through the nite sky
alone.
In
the middle of the room
sitting on a pillow
chanting
is the Baby of Love
Living beyond the shadow of death
Wet from the waters of experience
I
came to see the Baby of Love
I became its pupil
Each day rising with the Sun newly born
Sitting on a pillow on an astral cloud
The Room is known as Peace

RUN

The
Butler said
Run
Grips sense had lost its head
The
birds are flying away
The view is from overhead
The moment had come
The
Butler stands outside in the weeds
He is being reasonable
At
the door a child whispers
mommy he’s gone
Is
there nobody left that can see simple math
mommy can never speak of this
Angers body fell out the window
The
lovers left the sheets unchanged
The
Butler speaks through his back
this is not allowed
too many years of self defense
A
son of sadness takes his place
There is no one else to take orders
or answer the door

APARTMENT 25B

Lower

register

voices

climb

under

the

door

Flying hands have an intruding witness
a silhouette figure shaded
by the umbrella of a dark sky
carries away the bony words of lies
A notice on the door sings

time to move on

Where was the camera of truth?
The real story edited out
An attractive version all the news
next door skeletons hide out
Here rises the sun
The scene of mourning has arrived
The past passed away
how can we ever be friends again?

sit in the park

Play ball or swing

exchange stories share family

Believe in each other

The one thing we swore we would always do
No matter what
No matter what

DR. RUTTERBAR

Several
birds on a vine
turned sweetness to vinegar
spilled an ominous tale of a man from Little Earth
the bread in his mother’s kitchen
bought with tickets from the government
not store bought
his shoes thin leatherette with paper souls
his school in the darkest part of town
they called it Little Earth
Let us peer deeper into this story
watch the wind toss the past together
scenes of hot lips and fouled alleyways
frustration leaning off the heads working there
There is one light shining
the eye of a boy talking in the shadows
‘one day I will see a different world
I was not born to remain like this’
Dr. Rutterbar worked
while it rained pain
ate the bread of strangers
walked in creepy shoes
what was handed to him he handed to his brothers
but he could not stop the family from growing small
a brother in jail
a sister found on the street playing bit parts
his mother’s episodes of loneliness eating her whole
the bones of his father radiated
racially exposed
Little Earth was a place of groaning
for the young and the old
so few escaped
so many still call it home
Dr. Rutterbar was a pump
jumping higher and higher
if he died it would be in the sky
he wanted to walk new ground
he created a mirror showing his footsteps
reaching into the future leaving the past behind
the vine of believing living in his spine
His ship an ark of one’s and two’s
out to sea on a tide of knowledge
twenty five years of research
his boat came to rest on a distant shore
his past became his ancestors
he stood among the unfamiliar
outsiders cold shoulders and plainness
boldness only in finance
not the smile of stories told on broken steps
or backyards ragged with running children
not the dancing of Lokrana or Athilene
stiffness by design wheeled for show
hardly anything for real
bread bought in stores
meals cooked by a hired hand
Dr. Rutterbar was stuck on sweet water cornbread
greens and ginger root and a girl he never forgot
Sweet Candy who use to dance
the honey drop at the Sundown Saloon
Birds chirped loudly
he doesn’t belong not one of us
He’s a man from Little Earth
send him back home
Dr. Rutterbar
left on the ship that brought him
raised a ruckus finally back home
repaired many of the broken
not just the flesh and not just the bones
gave them the vine of believing
weaved it into their mind
a spinning loom through the heart
into the hands of action
he taught them new work
young and the old
they poured a flood over Little Earth
put their hopes and dreams in an ark
after the water receded
they built homes out of dreams
but they didn’t change the laughter or stories
or stop the dancing at the
Sundown Saloon

◊

Anthony Fudge (aka Hzal Anubewei) from Cleveland, Ohio is a Master Poet and was called a ‘word magician’ by Owen Dodson and Art Nixon said “he is a Poet’s poet”. Among his titles are Migration, Cry of Beauty, Diary the Genius of Love, A Scheme in Every Scene, Studney and Kilapot mystery series, The Dead Woman’s Bed and Orllopal. Hzal created a concept called pouring shade; colors are the shade HaHiYa makes to protect our eyes, to give us beauty. Pouring Shade is his fifth book of poetry. He is also the author of Seso the Prophet, the story of how would the world respond to a living black prophet espousing a spiritual message with his own god. The book began in 1976 and completed after forty years of contemplation and visions. Hzal also writes plays and has recently founded Oetryhouse, an effort to establish once and for all a home for Poet’s. Poet’s have no place that they can call home. They meet in bars or libraries or community centers or each other’s houses but there is no location they can go to that houses them or their works. If you want to help with establishing a home for poets please contact us at: oetryhouse@gmail.com