clumsy and violent
in our destruction
carnivore
herbivore
sure-footed-thunder
bearing down
on no future
the world is burning (turning)
turning (burning)
bleak mornings
endless nights
fear stirred by anxiety’s spear
searching for hope
in a world
already scarred
(scared)
i have a pebble
to offer
worthless
polished
smooth
by worry
set high on a shelf
worn
whole
silent
waiting
.
.
.
and now they say it’s not that bad, the sky isn’t
falling and here we are, bits of blue in our hair,
trapped in the rat-maze tracks we’ve worn in the
carpet, no longer even trying to get out.
and now they say sorry, so sorry, sorry, not sorry
and no one knows who cares, doesn’t care,
can’t care, wouldn’t care, cares too much,
has gone mad with the caring, can’t find
a damn thing to care about.
and now the sky is blue but it’s always raining and
the basement’s flooding, water seeping in around
the edges, no one sees if we close the door, ignore
the smell, carry on with dinner and distraction and
pretend people aren’t dying in a dark spreading puddle
of sour statistic.
and now. the question that only ever has one
answer, the damned unprepared living of it all,
smiling when the sun hits your face for one brief
silent moment, aching for life, alive love
laughter landing, burning through the
empty stare of days.
and now.
…
i think about words and the way we use them
sometimes as weapons
sometimes as shields
sometimes to unite
sometimes to divide
i think about unjustness and all the times
i fought the status quo
all the times
people around me rolled their eyes
because i wouldn’t stop couldn’t stop didn’t stop
saying
this is wrong
this is wrong
this is wrong
and now i’m silent
perhaps i’m listening
or exhausted
or a little bit broken
or thinking about the times
when i said
nothing
i rage inside but the words hesitate
just
on the edge
of my crone woman
tongue
as if gathered in their own lone protest
we will not go into the world for you
no one’s listening
it will not make a difference
no one’s listening
all the words have been spoken
no one’s listening
and besides
you must act
you must act
you must act
perhaps this is why
i can’t sit still
or hear my own heart beating
marching alone
through miles of anger
getting nowhere
soaked through with
cold hard injustice
pounding down around me
stepping over puddles
filled with lies
.
color
(in darkness)
is the shape
of your breath
(tangerine)
or the whisper
that scratches blue
out of black
and the middle
(which never falls
dead center)
the way the moon
wakes me up
with sharp raps
on my window
or silence
embarrassed
by its own
soliloquy
.
. . . . .
.
I couldn’t sleep for weeks
and then I remembered that I needed to write.
Ariel was always a dream, but a wakeful one,
whispering pictures and posturing portent.
I don’t need to sing, my body
is always happy to do that for me.
There’s a fire burning inside me (literally)
at the same time there’s a fire
burning down the world.
I lay awake at night and rage at everything,
but in a peaceful way.
I eat grace for breakfast and anomaly for lunch.
Everything has too many calories.
Something else I have to burn.
I can only sleep when my feet are cool
and mine are scorching these sheets
like my mother’s old iron.
This room is never dark enough,
and I am never really here.
It doesn’t matter.
Matter is energy and I am combustible.
I float like a gas just south of the ceiling.
No one ever notices, which is funny.
Except when I get stuck in cobwebs.
I’ve lived in this house longer than I haven’t.
It’s small and tiny and we are always tripping over each other.
I trip over everything anyway.
It’s winter and I miss the sky.
The snow geese are down at the swamp screaming injustice.
On New Year’s Eve the fireworks gave them fits
and I smiled as I stood
alone in the center of road
as white sparks drifted down
like lost feathers.
.
.
.
there will always be days
stretched tight
by the too dry skin
of living
there will always
be evil
rubbing shoulders
with light
always be witches
dancing circles
at night
always a cloud
blotting out
the gold sun
always loss and possibility
mixing chance
in roiling ocean
it doesn’t have
to be enough
or even
filling
warmth is the illusion
of life
parody is pure
in the blossom of sight
and green things grow
from the cracks
in black ice
.
.
.
the world we sit in
and the world we live in
have become
two different things
by now
fifteen minutes
is the measure
of antipathy
and data
the construct
of worth
observation
has replaced
interaction
i see you
you see me
we do not touch
i know one thing
about you
you know
three things
about me
it all adds up
we can’t
catch up
.
.
.
just ask nature, she’ll be happy to let you know
that dance was invented by willows
weeping at winter’s impostor
and stars are made from moans left hanging
on a breeze in the corner of reflection
.
we are all mirrors on the same wall of eternity
chanting hope and charity with leavening
.
this circle this tree this mind mattering
tossed by cold gale and rent from warm earth
growth and decimation occur concurrently
it doesn’t matter where you stand
it doesn’t matter where you stand
.
darkness always returns
as does mo(u)rning
.
.
.
.
fifteen years later
that’s what we call it
not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven
two words
three digits
two towers
four planes
thousands
of
mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends
not statistics
falling
from
the
sky
not dates
or where were you’s
just whole hearts
in odd numbers
each one
the only necessary
evidence
of love
::
.
.
the wind tells tales of emptiness
littering wide roads with leaves just released
from the captivity of decent living
beneath a sky gone grey with culture
an empty swamp sags with the pattern of destruction
heron filled and heron full on rotting fish and
stain stitched opportunity
and all the green has rolled inward, hoping for storm
or honest anger
finding nothing but dry heat hot
from the memory of august
balanced on the razor of reduction
the sun sinks red and rises false rose golden
as blinding answers dive
into the dusty hardheart crevasse of question
playing host to this catalog of possibility
while the distant beauty vulture
screams his mocking two-faced litany
of violent regeneration
.
.
.
