Konch Magazine - Five Poems by Blair Avon Martin
A man throws a boot  at an obnoxious Rooster.
His balls are loose and hanging from his naked body
over the edge of his bed where he now sits hungry
and thirsty  but too spent to do anything about it
and unable to sleep.
Concrete walls perspiring deliscious, aqua remedies
for the broken hearts of mothers lost are the guards
of this vision. Locked down and corners joined
they become one.
After consuming the essence of a Guava
the man ties a rope around a woman’s waist
and the bantom’s leg. As they reach the apex of their propulsion,
he severs the chord and they take flight in separate
but eually astonished directions.
Not enough sleep without any pleasure can be extremely dangerous
to those who fancy and practice the the art of deprivation.
All of twenty minutes is what it usually took for him to clear his head,
to console himself. But usual was not charateristic of four hours passed.
And as Hector flicks the ashes of his long awaited cigarette
into what remains of his dinner and lifts the bottle to his curious lips,
he can’t decide which  of his conspirators he misses most;
the horrid cock  or the cackling hen.
Blair Avon Martin

There are lips that fold into
depths of atavistic reasoning.
They  relieve themselves by springing forward,
reaching for a kiss in the absence
of color.
Fingers turn a page
dog-eared from nothing less than disdain
or is it love for that which stiffens
your spine in the absence of color.
When longing is wet and resistance
hard to come by, darkness looks
the other way from what lightness
tries to deny in the absence
of color.
Infinitely misguided by our faith in limitations,
the conflict set down by a folklore of miscegination
and imperialist mythology substituting
elementary biology, we are inevitably beside or
in front of ourselves when we dream
in the absence of color.
 Blair Avon Martin

                            FRUITE CAKE
Well, a day in the life of a dragon fly is
not one that I would assume to be charmless,
                      they’re such slite, nervous and shy creatures
that don’t take swimming lessons from
mosquito youth selling tickets on the Avenue.
But by the looks of this one, maybe they should.
Well, the girl next door,
her breath smells like baby food to me
and a strange fruite cake of a deserted
heart throb once confessed to me that
“it ain’t much different lyin’ on your back
in a flooded pot hole than when you flying”
Well, so, I immediately thought of rehabilitating
this poor, lost,
but oh, so lovely laced wing remnant of
prehistoric beauty just before sunrise
on a broken glass stage 
in a Baltimore project
                        inspector gossamer, are you ready?
Blair Avon Martin             

The day we met it was hot
it was first Avenue hot
Puerto Rican breath hot
it was the August sun Peeling away another layer of my over indulged obscurity.
Shoulders were dropped
breaths were hastily taken and given
smiles were ushered in at knife point
while voices sliced through the collective
it was open season.
I was working
I was dirty
scared and excited
I was detecting very impressive ripples
from waves of far more ominant tides.
And all I could think about
were the points he focused on
while telling me about you
and the dream that I had of you
before we ever met
and that skin that admired before
I ever touched it
and the flower I smelled long before you ever opened your legs for me
and all the fresh air and light
that my new recent perforations were then just dicovering and, and  how it was all a big tease.
                                                  Blair Avon Martin

I  am the voice of the unspoken word
the voice of secrets undeveloped and afraid
that seek refuge in the lower jaws
of monsters with sandy gums and broken teeth.
I am the voice of listening
that has heard all that it cannot speak of,
I watched that spider build that web
I swear I did and we had tea from rain water poured through porselain filters over the pits of fallen Apricots and I held the umbrella
the whole time while she made our bed;
this bed in which I am still floating.
I am the voice of pleasure alleys
paved with concord grapes picked by
whispering midgets-brown and soft-
whose sad eyes console one another 
in the silence that their muted lips embrace.
I am the voice of hair adorned, lovingly
cared for that no one ever smells or touches.
Hybrid locks of red, brown and gold
love each other and a pleathora of neglected
indentities is awakened in a forest of screams
that swallow my amphibious tongue.
I am promise.
                                          Blair Avon Martin