what does idzerda mean?
           I ask my glass.
   Hm? and nothing.

                            the same I pose to the unlit room
                             interrupted only
                            by candled faces.

what does idzerda mean?
          I crumple the question from the brim of my lips
                                                      and drop into the carpet,
                                                                        my request.
                                                I search each face and
                                                   pan from painting to clay.
                                       How about you? I ask the peeping moon,
                               can you tell me
                                           what Idzerda means?  Land me in kitchens
                                                       of old ovens, and lineoleum tile
filled entirely with bodies engaging.

peaking under home-made bread, and between
                            hands clenching each other
                                               with promise,
                                          I search to find my answer.

                                and I beg the
                                        wise guitar
                            and the dread locks on her shoulders
                                                  and petition the notebooks
                                                                  huddled quietly under
                                                 and dig for lessons beside
                                                        the couches other hidden treasures.
                                           but all the hanging paintings
                                           do is love
                                           or scream
                               or impersonate
                                           impossible lovely
                                                            dreams, and turn me back
                                          to the dark brew
                                                    churning a head,
                                                                   in my glass,
          and in the faces,
                    those candled orbs excavating one another's souls, I
                                                                                    find the most

               just like between those clenched hands,
                             and I owe a debt to wise guitar
                                                                and the dread
                                                                locks on her shoulders
   for now an arm has found
   its smiling way to the
   valley between my shoulders, and in my glass,
                                                                   in the black of brew
                                                                             and tan of froth,
                                                               I taste the voices of
                                                                                  those smiling orbs
                                                                               those candled faces
                                                                                     and know now,
                                                                       just what Idzerda means.

[for the idzerda girls]


  1. :)

    oh idzerda, how i miss her...

    thank you, erik. did you write this during the power outage night of 2009?

    p.s. i really don't want to comment on your "WTF daily" in the sacred idzerda comment space, but i'm unsure of another spot i can comment in - so, yes... WTF?!! i was just watching a democracy now clip ( where i heard wamp's ugly words. he's disgusting.

  2. beautiful. can't believe I missed this one. it is so good to "hear" from you :)

  3. Erik,
    i like that you captured the timeless moments that carry from one year to the next. All so specific to your experiences, but yet so well reminisced by the women inhabitants.