Dark Lady Poetry - Una Xoto




Una Xoto


A Night of Madness and a Dream of Childhood



It comes 

when you least expect to find it 

The dreams of childhood & the joy of the Sunday bell house 

To recall the rain against window & the pull of maternal hand rapt 

big 'round 

tiny bone finger child 

to feel warmth & know smile & father whiskers poke'd silly against face 

familiar vistas & pumkin'd terrain 

to feel the breath of memory lip the kiss of fortune 

To know the nest of safety & feel the softness of pacman jeans against leg & ankle 

A room, a table, a small lamp, basket tree of apples wormed brown 

alone with mirror 

alone with face 

cigarette death machine 

another push of whiskey 

in another room, narration of myth from formula

 The rise & fall of Icarus

 the vinyl hammer clicks the rocking horse to tremendous pause

 a half note of distance

   my throat bleeds out when wet or sickly

   Some where down the hall the tiny mirror

 another voice, another room

 a murmur...No, a choir for the mind to devise

 A divine Host shall glimmer the lunatic into

 patterns of recognition

 a host of stars burnt fast against my eyes

 & somewhere out there

 the two are laughing

 at the trace of shadow to lung

 or is that here? Is that now?

 I am not well. I may not ever see her well again

 to drown by thought is to drown by sea

 To erupt from the tree & to lust for

 the plum

 tongue licked

 sweet for something higher, something sacred

 my ears burn the worm & leave me with traces of

 the throat boat slowly burning Britannica volume by   volume 


 an echo more akin to rust accumulating oil from tube

 then of howl from breath


 there are fields out there 

Acres of memory which lay waste to harvest 

I am a shell fish greedy for the hook 

hungry for the worm 

I was once painted blue & whispered Golden 

raised above the hopes of 

all who came before me 

in the symphony of youth all tongues may recall 

the thought wheel of charity & the thickness of gravity 

The morning cock which stirred & crow'd us happy & sprite 

which pull'd back our hair & taught us delight 

the weekend sun who peeled 

away slumber & children's sleeping games 

to embrace & tumble down grassy hills into 

the arms & hearts of sisters who welcomed us home 

from trains & packed cars quick for leaving 

In my waking hours I knew only of 

promise & the gilded ceiling fans of possibility





Here we salute the onion

 the audience of stars & molecule

bead to thrash the tussle of rushes

which inhabit the framing hirsute node of skin between us

last night the lunar landing was a bathing point

motes do gloat the magnificence of our watery island

the sour facade of milk to skin to basin gold


   sparks sativa, burning root, ashen oak

   the voice of Oz

   a moment of tinsel supremacy


in between the days of sun & conception

   we left the bed in disarray

we painted our faces in flour & lead

& ran through windows to the sea

we reversed the twin turbine kaleidoscope

   reinvented order between our toes

From our gowns, Jehovah by helicopter

from our gowns, Stonewall & Gods promise delivered in a rainbow

Ah from our gowns, we kissed ourselves thirsty & loose


Forgive me (Aegri Somnia)

I have burned these shoes & been unfaithful

to this disease

   worn mustache & pantyhose over St Paul

have skipped second meal in exchange for cheap labor

(talk) Talk (talk) to other gods, other monSters, other creeds

but only because they are not so jealous or paranoid

found peace in Chinatown 11th & Vine Saturday 2:22 am Febuary 23, 2004

I wasn't there but I knew a few who were

They glanced the moving wheel which spoke blue & mechanical

under xeroxed reproduction

Drew pictures of Mohammed in dirty washrooms under weak lighting

Salaam, Salaam,

he kinda looked like Don Rickles in drag (Salaam)

Read hadiths beneath jubilant banners

dancing naked & pure we stirred certain stars & quietly consumed  the

others within a soup of her own design



Shalom, the war waged the struggle waned

Shalom, we turned our tulips toward the match & the stick

   all the while; sulfur burns

Shalom, my love is an ocean salty from your jeans

I was born from burning churches... shalom

firebombed for the pity of America...shalom

I was born from a lather'd bathroom stall

   Saturday 1:33 am 23, February 1974...shalom, shalom

   Born under fire within the brushstroke of the Minister Grandmother



No more for the old iron horse

we threw halos 'round the heads of the Great Mother

   & flipped chairs in the order of their exile


   from the shore

   trees, gardens

   vines ripe from the mather

From the yard

   ethos, dreams of trespass, open doors

   the taste of nicotine

From fingers

   foreign teapots, petites Madeleines

things once past, now modern   Glass

   & the softness of form

within the palm: Satori,

   Oh Trolleys into the sun

within the belly: an unfolding naval without

   Vishnu's lotus twirled  Nabhija, gave way to

ebb'd flowing units of memory

No not easy, never that

                     only the shadow which

          falls softly upon us all

               Only the ovens of modernity which

jitterbugs between days

              marching with the yellow captains of industry

the revolution balloons were in turn considered hoax & slight of hand

when held before the spectacle of vacuum tubes of pixilated reality


   this is not enough

                     this is never enough

           from the dawn to the dust

we have been promised something beyond the skin, beyond the  


                  we were bathed within the vocabulary

of thunder perfect mind

                             we were cherished above all else

        pebble fish: the golden egg will crack plates spinning the cosmos

and from within Jesus will tweet forth swirling tiny crackles of eggshells

& a thousand million smiling Jesus wings will implode into the cacophony of sound & vision

   Out of life, some breath... La petite Mort

   These sleeves, far from ordinary

   from your hearth bread of multitudes  (love) fingers caked with snow

   wiping away any labors lost   only hearts

   beating, eyelids stirring

  a bit of flatulence & the taste of whiskey on my fingers as

I stroke sleeping hairs goodnight

   deep from the sidecar train




Una Xotois a 36 year old African American poet who's base of operation is Philadelphia, Pa. He has been writing poetry and prose for about sixteen years.