Welcome to Baltic Soap, web site for Victor David Sandiego.
Here you'll find Poetry ● Music ● Various other ramblings. I'm also the editor for Subprimal Poetry Art.
Happy cats. Meanwhile, here's some pieces to peruse and the latest news.
Freshly fallen from the mountain, Jedidiah in the thick garden moonlight
cautions us that death is an illusion.
Some ease their dark debt with blindness but Jedidiah steps forward, intact:
I rotted in the rock for a long lake of years
before I inhaled the uninvited roses again.
Between sky and dust, death is the only fiction.
I looked suffering in the face, saw its cruel intention
seized the history of ages by its forearm
for a strong pulse. My choice was the stout branch
and the knots I twist with my ropy hands
but that door closed on me. I am more alive now
than when my life was an egg in the womb of the world.
Oblivion took pity on me, freed my shackled breath
and declared my destiny. I am a tool of God
and his legions of descendants who spread like spilled wine
from this garden. They need my blood to rinse their absolution.
It is death that imagines a world of empty graves.
I am but the reflection in your still pool
and my desire deserts me.
This piece first appeared in Cerise Press, Spring 2013.
The morning is fragrant and urgent; you leap from the blankets, rattle bed posts, boil water, sip tea, walk the terraced gardens, and admire how the years and seeds have grown into your own private labyrinth.
You speak with the woman you love in a warm stream of words and stroke her cheek with your fingers, but she is not visible to us. The bench you share with her sinks slightly into the Earth at your end, and the Camilla tree has dropped a petal that sits between you and the other armrest.
You have not lost your way. It is we who cannot see into the distance, south across many rivers and borders to the lake where a thousand generations have bled into the birth sheet.
No one person seems to know how you escaped from the city. Some say you were helped by Muwadi who dragged you from the crater and stood you upright among the rubble. Others claim to have seen you pierced by lightning and drawn up into a cloud.
Sometimes truth is the exaggeration minus the lie. For the legend, the tales we tell our children before bed, we allow that you are the only offspring of God and disregard the impossible purity contained in such an account.
However, when the fire is coals and our descendants simmer in sleep, we place candor on our tongues and admit that you are more than that. You are the heart, the lungs, and the bladder of a strong-beating people and no single angel can contain you.
This piece first appeared in Cerise Press, Summer 2013.
Priest opens a desert fist a red fish, regards with one eye heavens as sun crackles tattoos on his face. “I beg you destroy my affection,” he says in blood and sand flows from his morning feet. The ceremony that devoured his son casts a rut to the far edge of the earth. The crease that canyons his life into two pieces swarms with abuse. But he cannot consume the knife, for habit of existence. He cannot swallow his own cruel stake.
This piece first appeared in Ditch Poetry, January 2014.
My death rolled over in bed with a sorrowful face.
“Why do you not embrace my torso?” it asked
and for a moment
I became frozen between worlds.
The babbling street crawled in one ear through the window
and heaven descended from the bovada bricks
into the other. Street and heaven clashed behind my eyes
and severed my vision.
But I recovered and to my death replied:
“It is your neck I love, the rough dusty feel on my fingers
when I caress the crypt.” –
and my death merely stared at me,
as if I had ordered a coffee in a foreign tongue.
This piece first appeared in Labletter, November 2012
I’m pleased to say that Poetry Salzburg Review has accepted my piece Only When Gods Arrive Covered In Red Dust Will We Recognize Their Child Faces for publication in upcoming issue #26. PSR has published many authors, including Naomi Shihab Nye, Jerome Rothenberg, Rae Armantrout, and Brian W. Aldiss. I’m very happy to have found a home for this piece among such notable and accomplished writers. PSR is published at the University of Salzburg in Salzburg, Austria.
When creation collapsed upon the cross, wind and rain capsized the village of my birth and wrapped it in fishes. The wrinkled sky wore an ashen winter cloak and we nibbled sodden leaves from the pinnacles of trees.
The animals inside us mated with distress and in breathtaking discord obstructed the humanity of our voices. My family retreated beneath the waves and the air imprisoned in their lungs was wholly liberated.
Exhausted, and pardoned by an impartial shore, I stripped myself somber and naked, then encouraged my dripping form and figure south.
I saw a streak of my rightful self across an enormous canyon but rodents on the long road had gnawed my strength to stubs.
An angel melted into my nose and throat to thaw my frozen blood. The heartbeat of my fear slowed to a waltz and my eyesight grew a pointed stick to puncture the mist.
Exhuming a fallow torchlight, I seeded it with oil and illuminated the corridors that run as reckless ponies through the raging night. All the impious gods came out to greet me with their fingers on their faces and their hair in bamboo shock! to find me still alive.
For I had arrived from across a sea of petrified nations, over the discarded bodies of the warm unborn, and through a furious gauntlet of desperate dying worlds.
This piece first appeared in Generations Literary Journal, Fall 2013
39 Boys on Ground is now available on Smashwords as an ebook. There's several formats to choose from including Kindle, EPUB (for Apple devices, Nook and others) or just regular PDF file for reading on just about any computer. You can also get it at many other retailers (partial list below)
Also, see excerpts from 39 Boys.