George Wallace (USA)

George Wallace (USA)
George Wallace is writer in residence at the Walt Whitman Birthplace, author of 38 chapbooks of poetry, and editor of numerous journals and anthologies, including the forthcoming From The Inside: NYC Through the eyes of its poets (Bluelight Press, 2022). From his base in New York City, he travels worldwide to share his work, including a number of recent award-winning appearances in the Southern Balkans, Italy and Greece — including the Naim Frasheri Laureateship Ditet e Naimit Festival (Tetova Mc); Corona d’Oro (Korca Literary Festival, Alb); Orpheus Prize (Orpheus Festival Plovdiv Bu); Centro Studii Archivio d’Occidente Award (Lavis It); and the UNESCO Alexander Prize for cultural contributions (Cafe Idion, Salamis).
call me your love, said the worm to the rose;
call me your desire, said the fisherman to the hook;
call me your darling said the sugar to the spoon
said the woodcutter to the tree,
said the millionaire to his money
said the peasant to his priest
said the beater to the beaten
said the penitent to his god
in the prison of false shame;
said the dark eyed stranger stumbling broken through ignorant cities in search of dope, in search of oblivion and salvation and the light,
call me your protector said the drunk to the child
said the thief to his prey
said the strongman to the weak, dragged and dishonored through his ragged nightmare eclipse of self loathing
call me your hero said the soldier to the citizens, cast aside and left to wander through hostile wilderness and the terrible knowledge
that he has been used and used
that he has killed and been killed
that he has wounded and been wounded
that he has abducted and pillaged and abandoned all semblance of love and humanity and the family of man
in the name of blood
in the name of brotherhood
in the name of power
in the name of the tribe
in the name of peace defiled in a thousand thousand unnecessary ways,
call me your love and I will call you my love, once more in the name of the rose
and I will call you holy
and I will call you my darling and my dear and my own, my body and my blood
and I will call you revelation in the hour of my grief
and I will call you my rock and my salvation in the hour of my need,
in the hour of my thirst
in the hour of my suffering
in the hour of my blindest fury
said the suffocated child
who gave all that he could give
but was still found wanting
maybe it’s
a streetlamp
maybe it’s love
maybe it’s the summer moon
maybe it’s an
unforgiving city
across the east river
that eats its young
or a young girl’s heart
that beats way too fast
for ordinary people
or a broken dream
that slips away
maybe it’s raindrops
maybe it’s mick jagger
singing wild horses
on the radio —
or maybe
it’s just brooklyn
sleeping in the arms
of some strange
familiar shadow
that only
brooklyn understands —
but there are just some girlsBa
with comets in their eyes
& little glass hearts
that keeps breaking
& breaking
& then filling
right back up again
who can’t stop believing
in the city of lights
& all the pretty boys
still twinkling
across the east river
in the hallway of dreams

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