Herstory Repeating

 Brain warms, see? Angry, arrabiata, constantly

spicy, talking to myself and many, many

inanimate things that don't

PICK THEMSELVES UP AROUND HERE!

Cravings, ravings, maybe a little snack would

help? Thirsty, snapping, napping, and sweating,

getting older is not a joke.

Thickening, sickening, 

high volume and low vibrational

at the same time? The whole deal

is split mind and too many places

for the pieces to go, and I don't know.

Maybe I will have a snack

and a cold coffee. And sit wondering why

my skin got so dry and how alien

it feels to be me, still being me.

The Bomb Threat

 The state police outside the building

in the morning gave me

a mild touch of alarm,

but so what? 

Their presence was neutral

and not one of harm.

The email that told us

to "shelter in place"

was so calmly, thoughtfully

written as if to give space

to the possibility of

calamity. It was

necessary, but

not to create panic because

in reality,

such threats are commonplace,

and mostly bullshit.

If they really intended it--

would they even make

a threat? 

Living in interesting times. 

Everything is a 

long risk bet. 

I Consign

 If there are those who have died for love

let me be among them

rather than those who died for hate.

For I would not be great in

any single thing

if it would not be

love. 

And hate is not great

to be with in life,

or to be with when late.

And so among the lovers doomed

who bled their breaths out 

while their passions bloomed

across piano keys

or canvasses or 

the bodies of their lovers,

to be among these

I consign my spirit.

I have loved too well

not to have done so wisely. 

To have loved greatly is

no shame

and to love broadly is 

the best game in town.

Let me lay myself down

having been down. 

The brightest of goofs,

the quintessence of 

saps, the homo sapiens, sap. 

I loved, therefore I was. 

My only because. 

Imperfect Sacrifice

 I'm sorry to tell your tale

because you were human,

and if I am honest,

no human is good enough

that someone would not see

the perfectly decent reason

you "had" to be dispatched.

Even if it was part your humanity

and part their invention.

Even if you spoke untruths sprung from 

the lies that murdered those around you.

Even if your anger was 

altogether understandable if, and only if

they could stand where you did. 

They don't and say:

You should have forgiven like a saint.

You should have pierced through 

the fog and foghorn of war. 

You should have written purely

of beautiful and doomed things,

never the ire of nationalism or

the pride of seeing oppressors

(or so supposed)

brought down. 

They will deny it was wrong because.

Because.

Because. 

The cause.

I don't believe in angels. 

I've never flown a kite. 

I believe in freedom and

the imperfect power of poetry

in the Celtic tradition of some of my ancestors

to lay a curse in verse that

circumvents the power structure

to create a new channel and do

almighty things. Not because poets are perfect people.

(Fuck no.)

Because we are fucked up enough to be recognized

as very human and make, therefore,

the perfect imperfect sacrifice--

we do get gone,

but the words live on. 

And you saw the arrow aimed for you

and named it. And I am not

going to name it anything else. 

A slaughtered goat

that purifies no gate

imperfectly made

in a world of hate. 

Diligence

 The house that

is no more

had people who are no more

but parts of the house

and the people remain

and the diligence is

retaining the parts

that were alive

while the parts that were 

a building are removed

and this is more painstaking

and fraught than

you want to know. 

Especially when in your heart 

you want the parts that were living 

to be alive. 

And I don't know what therapy

fixes it when

no 

one 

is.

The Pillar

 She knew in her mind that

she was not to turn,

as her husband would not turn, steadfast to

G-d, but the screams of

destruction from the skies

reminded her of the cries

of her own daughters

in the cradle,

and more from instinct

than with any intention

she looked to the 

target of the wrath

and felt her limbs

turn, immobile and helpless

and tasted salt in her mouth

as if she drank

her own tears.

November 30: As if Playing

 Look at them all, 

as if the children they were,

scheming and playing

all in the yard.

All in the yard, they stay

young men, and

dreaming

of a time when the lessons

weren't so hard.

The world is a yard

by a foot and half, 

a map on which 

they blueprint their 

moves

as if building war engines

from blocks to be 

used in a yard where 

some are armed with bullets

and others with sneers

and rocks. 

They go to it as if playing.

Playing, as some play asleep

and some play awake. 

The tin-can telegraphy of 

war plans ignored

because another game

seems to have more reward:

it could happen and has.

Too sadly I'm saying that

lives like broken toys

were lost

while the grown-ups

were playing.