how I hold you

 Bello, you call me "beautiful" every day

and ask me did I know:

Did I know you love me?

Did I know I am cute?

Did I know?

Did I know?

Twenty something years roll by

of tenacious love

and constant affection

towards the thing in me

that isn't easy to see. 

Who loves me in my darkness,

who supports me in my rage,

who reminds me he loves me

when I'm out of pocket

and need to turn the page? 

I hold you, though

you are tough-skinned enough

to love me,

so carefully in my hand,

like an irreplaceable rarity

because that is you. 

I treat you as fragile because

nothing

loving me

should be treated any other way. 

And I fear I will hurt

what I love. 

He Prayed for Her, He Said

 He prayed with his fists

to the god of pain

for her to soak up his anger

and soon her clothes were

soaking

and she fell

and her cries stopped

and his anger stopped

and turned to gutless fear.

And then he hid her

and prayed she would never be found.

Those were

his only prayers.

Flesh is Tragic

 I've told you this:

we live to die,

and all the store of humanity

we set our hopes by

is a sucker's bet.

We live in denial

that flesh is tragic

and life a trial.

I saw a woman in flames;

did the passersby?

I saw her because 

the camera doesn't lie. 

They offered her views

and not a coat 

to smother the flames--

like a goat

sacrificed to the God of 

Likes and Clicks

her death gave a 

Junkie Messiah a fix.

The death of one human

preserved at the end

by hit camera, save

then send. 

Solstice

 Kissing the blackened eyes of winter,

we will find the sun for you, our sister

though the road be cold and night so dark.

She lay without her sultry lover, 

snow her whitened shroud and cover,

but on high we know he comes--hark!

His shadow looming in the gloaming,

faithful still and not for roaming, 

the bridegroom sheds his winter pall. 

The stone will move that found him missing

her cold-numbed lips he will be kissing,

and in their reunion rejoicing--all!  

(After the manner of Aurelia St. John.)

The Scarab Unafraid of Shit

Entomb me with your burying gaze,

your mudslinging ways,

these claws were meant to dig. 

But I will be extremely big

about the pyramid of shit

when you had me in it. 

Should being brought low make me small?

Honestly? No, not at all.  

A scarab beetle cleans and renews

in the dung and death that ensues

all throughout its constructive life.

And me--I thrive on strife. 

Because striving is thriving and tills the soil

that preserves my entire mortal coil. 

Go on and criticize me,

you nourish and moisturize me. 

And I will come up glowing. 

So step back or start knowing. 

Dreamtime

 I dreamt of the ancestors,

my ancestors,

even the ones I didn't know. 

I have done that, sometimes.

But it makes me wonder

because it would--

is this good? 

Because it feels like they

were welcoming me

to that place that we

eventually see

which right this minute shouldn't be

that close for me.

But when I look at this life

and all its attendant harms

a part of me was ready to 

rest in those arms. 

But maybe they were just checking in. 

Because I'm not ready for checking out. 

They are staying with me, though.

No doubt.

The Caged

 What is a bird?

The captive child asked

never having seen the sun,

let alone a creature taking wing

free on the wind,

If a pile of shoes could not

throw you,

nor the device where men

were pressed flat,

the vintage of their arteries

running in grooves on the floor--

let that question haunt you:

"What is a bird?"

And how would you explain

the thousand and one things

he'd never seen in the world,

let alone the things

he had?