I have seen her in the square,
gaunt, a mendicant, spare,
begging those with eyes to see
her devotion to her mendacity.
She will call herself a victim
while being a bully in your face--
plying the oldest trade in town
with her soul an empty space.
She's a creature marking off its turf,
pissing in public on the dirty earth.
If your skin sits ill on your shoulders
from prying eyes and
burning words
cast it off.
What is underneath is
more than they
can bear--
don't add another layer.
Not a pink hat
a t-shirt
a bracelet.
What you use to signify
is too abstract,
a mask--
reify. Render yourself
material and place your staff
deep in the roots of the world.
You too are bloody red in tooth
and claw--
start remembering
what these things were for.
I am nine tails old now,
and I change like the white water.
I ate my birth year for good luck
and am my own daughter.
Sometimes when I drink you
can see my teeth come out--
just a little sharper,
causing just a little doubt.
Contrary to myth no femme fatale--
not at all, not at all.
But things I touch may fall
as if bewitched.
(Or as if pitched.)
Nine tails old is a thousand tales
in the making.
Things I might say would leave you shaking
Mostly because they are true.
Also because I am telling them to you.
And there's no telling what
I might do.
They came to march to assault your eyes
with that same old symbol--
both a cross, and not.
They walk the streets bare headed now--
openly now to defy
the safety and morality you've still got.
Their flag you know, and their minds
would not surprise you
with new and inviting temptations.
We've heard these words and know
their kind--they represent
societal desecration.
So here's the deal, stand fast
fill the street. The ask is that they do not meet
with frightened eyes but defiance,
Their reliance is on fear and they
will take it and feed--
the task is to say no to fear.
The next course is blood.
Will you refuse to bleed?
The war in you demands more of you;
the resources you have, and don't.
What more do you want from yourself--
but something inside just...won't?
You see two paths in a wood
and both are a "wouldn't".
You know right from wrong,
and everything is a "shouldn't".
There has to be a reality
beyond just "to be or not to be."
Are we doing this right?
Living deliciously?
Or doing it with spite--
maliciously?
Too many people have too long been spoiled.
They can't find themselves until they are roiled.
O cursed fate--
by then, isn't it too late?
There are those who live a life
that never begs them for the proof,
they cry and cry for their problems
but they have to blame the wolf.
What if the wolf got civilized
and came to your door
a service processing animal--
the kind you couldn't ignore?
What if he took on a whole
new set of clothes?
Learned to smile without showing
teeth in rows?
Unless he wanted to?
What would you do?
If he settled with his pack
and everyone had his back and you
were still just a little rabbit who
ran and ran when he frightened you?
Maybe make yourself a loup-garou.
Go and be the wolf yourself
instead of your crying.
Yeah. You.
They say the gods have feet of clay,
I wouldn't let them on my freshly mopped floor.
I think our leaders are made of wax;
they don't stand up to the heat anymore.
Icarus flew too close to the sun,
before his wings fell quite to pieces.
Yet I have seen the earthbound fall apart
and be remade like the ship of Theseus.--
molded to any shape you please,
a dripping face, weak at the knees.
