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
.
.
.
i refuse to say
hang in my heart
on bits
of knotted thread
and wrinkled ribbon
swaying
in a barely moving breeze
wrought
from distilled smile
and cornered
memory
because what choice do we have
and besides
the sun made a rare appearance this morning
dishes needed washing
we need to eat
and
some days
it’s fair to say
i’m tired.
part of me thinks
revolution
is for the young
and we’re all just
spinning
waiting
acting
watching
fighting
for
another
day
to stand
or soar
or sit with it all
once more
.
.
.
people say you’ve changed
and i say
hallelujah!
about time!
how high?
my feet got bigger
and my hips got wider
and crone was painted every
where i looked in
big red scary letters
or long retracted grey whispers
(and both sound exactly just the same)
i inherited all this anger
from the girl that came before
this rage
raging all around
i’ve been breathing rage
for a year now
a year that broke my heart
in every sideway possible
and screwed it back together
with those cheap screws
that break
when you crank too hard
that makes it sound worse than it was
that makes it sound easier than screaming
that makes it sound so grandiose
when really it was just hours
and minutes and tears and breathing
sweat equity pouring down my back
as i walked for miles and miles and miles
and never did get far enough away
i have calluses stronger than my silence
i have plastic words and a purple parachute
i have this empty body standing tall
and we all sag under the weight
of whittled-down survival
…..
this afternoon
the sky
was filled with geese
winter is coming
winter is coming
at night i hear these words
in the darkness
outside my window
inside my head
your voice
my voice
whisper scream
the possibility
of resurrection
.
.
.
they said youth was the currency
and beauty the price
but we knew better
on the streets
of anarchy
where blossom
was never
as fragile
as ego
and thorn
was the tally
of vice
.
.
.
the ladies gathered every evening
tap-tapping with canes and shuffling mules
to talk about the storm that was always coming
and the girl that walked to Seattle
pain always sitting on somebody’s lap
and death on a bench in the corner
pretending to be ignored
no one rose up to kiss away the chip
on a bony-cold squared-off shoulder
no one was afraid and
no one was falling
for the pout on the face of resistance
by this time they were all old friends
acceptance was the belt
holding the bathrobe closed
and besides, thelma told
the best stories
.
.
.
i’m dizzy all the time
and i’d like to say that’s metaphor,
(and it is, a little)
but i can’t seem to stand
in one place
long enough
to stop the spinning
i thought age
would keep me steady
strengthen roots
chart my course
but the world is cockeyed
and ambitious
and i get closer to antique
every day
rebellion is for youth
(or so i thought)
but here i am
(here we are)
fighting for things
i thought already won
and that’s just the way of things
isn’t it?
nothing is certain
we fool ourselves
into new beginnings and lit
lights and the mirage of
equanimity
but the truth is
it’s a never-ending battle
and i think understanding
that one simple thing
sustains us
i grow old on the banks of a river
running circles
around us all
.
.
.
i think that’s what she said while trying to smile
and i never was one to argue with deliverance
even after tilt-shift became a normal point of view
i wanted to hold you
at least your hand
but paper thin skin
kept rising between us
none of us means to die
even when we want to
trying to smile at her own lost joke
fingers scrabbling at the corners
of a crooked mouth gone dry
like the wind i drank
to forget your sky
.
.
.
negative space holds the shape of things
we know this, but choose to dance in the open plains
because existence enjoys being contrary
explain to a child the difference
between holey and holy
wholly
or the nature of sanity
and the way the stars all revolve
around one direction
or why i’m bound to sit
facing southeast
watching a halo of hair
glint off the arms
of the distant day
you embraced me
.
.
.
and you wear them on your heart
like a badge or a pin
or a reminder to remember
you expose them
to the elements
harden them off
rub them raw
until they weave
their own shield of shadow
and eventually
stop hurting
when they’re touched
.
.
.
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