stone panegyric

death wears so many costumes

but there is really only one homicide

and even that death surpasses legal definition

it is simply, intentionally, taking a life

 

since we’re still alive, and we never conspired to kill,

i cannot blame her nor myself for this death

we watched our collective life sicken, whither away

and die; we are not murderers

 

sure, we were always going to be prime suspects

in the eyes of those who prescribe criminal behavior

they’re automatically suspicious

of those who found the dead body

 

i’ve come to this plot to pay my respects

and to consider this question:

does anything, anyone, pass before its Time?

or is this simply a conciliatory cliche?

 

we’re so used to playing god, us humans

small wonder she and i longed to resuscitate

the terrifyingly pale corpse

of our once vibrant relationship

 

a eulogy for a romance seems silly

but this is a real death, the loss of

a tangible, unique life, whose magic

we will never know again

 

tragic though it seems by modern standards

i watch the Great Mystery carry on, with simply

a passing nod at this minuscule casualty,

quietly certain we will all Rest In Peace

[untitled]

potency may have once been

unknown

masked by plentitude and party-tricks

experimentation continues through

currency and curiosity

both of which require nine lives

as neonates and as nobodies

each novel chapter

carries a continuity

which experience I

may dare call

character

Women’s March (it’s January)

left, right, left, right, left, right,

center. centered.

grounded.

wishing we could dole out punishment

to not-our-president

lock him in a tower

and call him a princess

just to hear his blood boil

or see him finally let down his hair

 

left, right, left, right, left, right,

i was born in march

left, right, left, right,

left of center

decidedly moderate

cordial

pass the spiritual digestif

chase the feeling

left, right, left, right

no nostalgia for the future

left, right, left, right

these boots are made for stompin’

all over public property

whose streets?

left, right

our streets

left, right

whose windows?

left, right

…their windows

left

with a feeling

of anti-reconciliation

i cannot meet

the two at once

my wingspan being finite

 

left, right, left, right

round and round the parade route

chasing your own tail is easy

when you don’t recognize it

as your own

why are you here?

I feel scared, I feel angry

why are you here?

I like an excuse to shut down traffic

why are you here?

The state has finally revealed itself, this is our chance!

why are you here?

.

oh, you’ve been here all along…

Where have I been?

you ask

worker me

Honey, I’m back home in the hive!

though I admit I have no gift

for the queen

 

I’ve been hunting for the reproductive organs

of mother earth with which to polenate

my worker-bee spirit

 

I tasted, selfishly, the sweet nectar of fire,

the syrup of silence, and

freedom’s flower

 

Returning to the hive was always my intention,

but I have to play tricks on history

and dance forward in time

 

And now I’m back in the land of the drones,

physically present, socially distant, feeling

the collective buzz

 

My wings tired, covered in the scum of experience,

I comb through dreams of embellishing my

honey nest and growing pollen of my own

right here, so that leaving is

not such a damned

necessity

Beaten

Why was the heart, with its throbs, aches,

breaks, and other metaphorical palpitations,

the presumed locus of love?

I should think a more fitting personal analogy would

place my heart in my patella,

for they’ve experienced very similar levels

of abuse.

Or why not the brain,

which gets credit for all types of smarts

but not emotional intelligence?

Could love not also live in the lungs,

where expansion and contraction

and absorption of invisible life forces occur

as quickly as a fresh romance, and which

occasionally culminates in breathlessness?

Might love not motivate the legs, that so often reach forward

without explanation beyond their own expectations,

and yet will fail equally unpredictably and

send us crashing to the ground?

Does love dwell in the eyes, so commonly seeking

contact with a complimentary pair?

No? Yes?

Could our number of eyeballs

form the basis for monogamy?

All these could be…

beaten

by the heart, which,

sending and receiving with miraculous determination,

is both the question and the inquirer

on a life-long

journey to

discover

another

itself.

SPECULATIN’

Lo! The ground beneath is spent

But acquiring shit is still our bent

Decades digging for metaloid,

gas and crude have left a void

I refer not to holes in the earth

but to our need to label worth

we’ve a new commodity no less fake

called culture,

and unlike coal,

it doesn’t take

a million years to make

bar riff

doom’s delivered daily in the darkness

a lack of light loves lackadaisical lounging

we want the world and we want it sunny

we see the world’s local climate accentuating

or emboldening the political

the processes of pollution and plunder and pain

if our leaders can live in an imaginary world, why can’t we will

Vitamin D and dance parties into ours?

 

blood is a cheap excuse for drug use

 

make the moist of what you’ve not

 

the nostalgic smile of an old leathery white man

nearly brings me to tears

as he stares into his glass three

bar seats away

and it occurs to me

that I might be an emotional genius

but I’m probably

just exhausted

 

95 bitterness units

5% shy of infinity

not worthy of rounding up?

when 100 and 1 million mean the same thing

have we touched god?

we can perceive the number

but not what it symbolizes

am I in heaven?