Love

Continue?

K.O.
!
!
!

this tree reminds me of home;
if i sit here, i can’t hear anything else.
don’t step on a crack,
or you’ll break your mama’s back.

you’re ugly, your family’s poor,
no one cares what you say.

what do you want to be?
you can be anything;
follow your heart.

what if my heart is wrong?

come here- do you like that?
oh my god, that was like
the good parts of Revelations…
you left scratches on
my ribcage skin.

you smell like the Hanging Gardens.

i’m going to use you until you break;
i’m going to wrap thorns around you
and drink your blood.

i’m going to show you your pile
of broken failed foundations of tears;
and your pillars of light
no one else saw.

why did you stay with him?
jesus christ those scars.

more than my own life.
friend lover shield-bearer,
sovereign empress our kingdom,
headstones side by side.

i wish there was room.
i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry.
you’ll leave.
i’m damaged i’m stained i’m emptied out.

i think i could marry you.

yeah right.
jerk nerd preppie slut OCD failure.

can you see the skeleton outlines
where my cathedral glass
used to be?

I always thought
you reminded me
of a secret door
to some cavern in the desert.
I never cared too much
what was behind it.
that door, though, my god that door.

a million times
over and over and over and
over again.
mine.

in my dream, your hair was white,
and you still showed me
new constellations.

goodbye.

i forgot to figure out
what i want to be.

did you love?
did you?
not did you appear together
in public,
or try to impress the other,
or use someone
good-looking hey there.
but
did you climb the mountain
in the dead of winter
and give her your coat
and bring her food
and almost die
on your way back to the valley?
and no one saw and

what about tomorrow?

it’s dangerous to go alone;
take this.

go away.
i don’t need it-
put it back in your chest.
you’re bleeding.

i can’t, it doesn’t fit anymore.

i don’t have any more lives.
nothing makes sense.

does it have to?

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image

Absolution

everyone in this
defiled city
participates
in the dance of death

Not a blood sacrifice
on the altar of conquest;
not a dutiful chore
checked off with the groceries
and the collection plate,
and the towel-folding;
nor a stipulation,
nor a bargaining chip.

No.
Not a tool.

The vessel of our worship,
the unseen conversation
of tactile grace in the dance electric-

God damn you
and the way your back arches
when you pin up your hair;
I cannot get your stain
out of my soul.

I would trace my fingertips over your scars like a murderer’s over rosary beads.

You know better-
lightning can strike the same place twice;
shall I show you?

When
I have to come up for air,
or my hand is saying “come here”;
when
your forehead is touching the ground,
or you are knelt with hands folded-

Is that not all a kind of prayer?
Will we make one another beg
for forgiveness?
What is there to forgive? Shadows?

Shadows have no pulse.

So,
tell me…
how long has it been
since your last confession?

Bones

Then said Almitra,
“Speak to us of Love.”

were you born homesick?
why do you even have words
in this place?
it’s 2:37 AM inside you
here there is no clock
no slicing of time
there is no one here

to remember your first car
to call you Jezebel
to take down your blue ribbon
to pass you a plate of bitterness

that redwood
will not tie a weight around your heart
and make you thank him for it
the fog-blanket moving
will ask nothing of me
nor will it drain my self
and beat me for being empty

can you let yourself die?
you have known true nightmares
but… can you?

i don’t need that tree
for my self to live
i don’t need that fog
i don’t need your breath
inside me

but it would be nice

it would be nice to die / eventually
don’t you think?

i fear one day we may get lost
you and i
in the godhead of the wild
and uncover all the secrets
they’re afraid of.

credit: the author

Phoenix

So you,
spark fed by the wind
laying waste to the forest;
whisper on the ear
becoming a tornado;
ripple spreading in the ocean,
birthing the tsunami;

the soul of the earth
men would let blood for;
and the flower
growing from the bones of the dead,

what say you to sleep?

And what fault then
lies in the spark,
in the breath,
in the ripple?

We are, all of us,
formed from the dust of the ground
and the death of the star.

So who is to blame this night?
The beauty of this destruction
is in the birth from the ashes.

Leylines

Roads of dirt, and of pavement,
fences of split rail, and of barbed wire,
lengths of time, linked together in chains;
we move along them,
now racing, now clinging-
each of us under the same sun,
each of us with the same heart;
we stand in our own clearings,
build our own altars,
and send up our own prayers
that drift into the sky;

even though

we sit under the same tree,
ears crushed by the same thunder,
held by the same embrace of the morning,
laying flowers on the same grave,
and folding the same hands-
some smooth as alabaster, some rough as rawhide.

And sometimes,
sometimes,
the web converges,
sometimes I meet you,
sometimes the rhythm aligns,
the tide goes out, taking our footprints,
the shadows collapse, light breaks over the horizon.

Sometimes,
you rest your head on my shoulder,
and I rest mine on yours.

Angel

Shackled to rock
above high cliffs of white,
where clouds gather in the shapeless dark,
thunder growls
and spits lightning
on her head,
illuminating
rains that fall down her face,
mixing with tears
that flow around her smile.

Each drop is a moment.

When the air is still,
she lights what incense is left
in this nameless place
and prays,
making music without instrument,
holding the lock that binds her,
watching the flame dancing across feathers
torn from her wings.

There is a key.
I have seen it.

Now,
if you have ever wondered
how a star can die
or a diamond can form,
why beauty has no age…
if you have ever seen
a bird in its cage,
you will know why she sings
the way she does.

Haven

Frost clings to cascading haystacks

in the comfort of a low fog bank,

resting

in the benediction of the softened morning sun;

the rocking chair, holding a rhythm,

the barn door, open like a hymnal,

the fenceline, stretched as a sheet of music;

eddies of sawdust dance in the light.

This is distinct,

this is a dilation of time,

this is intercession,

this is the mote in God’s eye,

and the blessing of memory coiled in on itself

with the old lariat in the corner.

Listen to this silent song:

a distant scrap of laughter,

brushing off a rising wall of cut granite;

the fading warmth of an embrace

stealing away into the mist.

Like the mason’s craft,

the mortar cracks to dust;

the stone remains.

Tabernacle

Hush, now;

the sun is spilling over these unending pastures,

and she is standing at the end of the field,

watching

the coupling and the uncoupling,

the warp and the weave,

the sky and the soil;

and, holding a handful of dirt,

sees light race to the edge of the prairie

where it drops off into space.

There is a voice, here,

a scrap of sermon remembered:

“…let us reap this rampant harvest from the firmament.”

She stands, letting the stalks brush her hand-

some are bent,

some are broken,

some are painted with a swath of morning,

and some are spattered with a thin trail of blood,

as tails of air uncoil in the wheatgrass

over miles of root woven to the earth,

pulling at the groundwater;

something moves, a pulse

insistent as the creak of a wooden pew,

in this place

unleavened as the bread

cooled upon the dinner table.

Hush, now;

she stands at the end of the field

as the wind stirs behind her,

and, for a moment,

picks fragments of ash

from a naked foundation.

Heirloom

This afternoon, I suggest
you both wander the antique shop,
instead of passing by,

and admire the woodwork
and what it may retain:

the bread that has been broken at this table,
the fears that have been projected onto this mirror,
the love that has been made in this bed,
the plate, cracked by the fist
born from the open palm of affection,

the dresser, once sitting by the threshold,
a father, recoiling at the sign above it, which says
“Bless this house”,

a mother, leaning on the armoire, saying
“Let this cup pass from me”,

a grandmother, holding a bowl,
staring at her hands in amazement,
saying “I am grown old”,

and a mural in stained glass-
a short blessing of sun in the shadow.

If you look closely,
you can see

the bones that have broken
constructing this life,
and the hands that have bled
building this house.