Words Betray Me

I can say "I love you,"
And it is not a lie,
But it is
not
nearly
enough.

"I wish I could live in your heart."
That comes closer.
Growing roots into your
capillaries,
Sending verdant shoots
up
into your
ventricles,
Letting my leafy boughs
Breath oxygen
Into your blood--
what a gift
it would be to
always
provide for you.
But it is
still
not
enough.

"I feel every ounce of your pain in my own soul."
This approaches the sum of things.
My nervous system
Can no longer distinguish
Between your electrical current
and mine.
Every ache and anguish
Flows into me,
Sending lightning into my fingertips--
"Go to the Beloved!
Touch, soothe, be
Healed!"
But it is
never
enough.

And so these words betray me.
I can say "I love you,"
And it is not a lie,
But it is
not
nearly
enough.

Anthem of Self-Destruction

Inspired by the How Green? song "I'm Bored Therefore I Am"

I live in a cloister of debauchery, surrounded by the aimless amusement of lost and broken people. Echoing from the pounding basement floors stained with booze and the dorm sheets soaked with sexual frustration, I hear a sweet, slow anthem of self-destruction. Youthful vigour be damned--here, death matriculates as hyperactivity. In rare sober moments, my generation faces that most haunting inconvenience--"I'm bored, therefore I am." Terrified of the inescapable clauses after "I am...," too often punctuated with dysfunction, disillusionment, and debt, my peers flounder in filth and put up no resistance as a gnawing numbness ensues. There is no more "I love you"--only "I'm taking you down with me." The dully tragic and the tragically dull become indistinguishable, blurred together by drugged eyes, dilated and unseeing. Beneath the clamour and frenzy of hedonism, the gorgeous refrain continues, tantalizing, beckoning towards defeat. "Slip away and drown in me," it whispers, "what does it matter, anyway?"

Indiana's Best Self

Indiana is the smell of sweet onion grass and dandelions, and the sight of intrepid Queen Anne's Lace on the side of the road.

Indiana is children with hammers cracking open geodes with giddy awe.

Indiana is tea on the porch as the cicadas trill and fireflies string themselves across the leafy boughs of beeches and tulip trees.

Indiana is sweet corn and fresh watermelon, homemade apple pie, and all the neighbors gathered around a grill.

Indiana is a shady creek full of crawdads and minnows, and a bonfire laughing into the dark.

Indiana is square dances, watercolor paintings, and poetry readings in affable red barns.

Indiana is smiling faces, whether clad in checkered shirts and cowboy boots or a salwar kameez.

Indiana is the feeling of coming home.

On the Destruction of Nimrud

the ghosts of nimrud are summoned tonight.

their voices whisper in a tongue

our ears barely remember,

wafting from the cracked and broken

statues,

like vapour hovering above the crumbling stones.

but lo, this is no dirge I hear;

no cry of mourning,

no wailing, no tears.

the shadows suspended on dust

are laughing.

you who chase after empire,

take heed!

they laugh at your folly,

at your pride.

do you think your black-clad ozymandias

will last any longer in these desert sands?

do you think your pounding rivers of blood can drown out

the sound

of civilization, 

whispered into the ears of little girls 
with schoolbooks?

living voices may need to lament, but
the ghosts of nimrud laugh.

you cannot hurt them.

they have nothing more to loose,

for sand claims everything

the hand of man touches.

and yet,

each bright-eyed child

finds footprints in the dust,

leading them onward, onward,
guided by the whispers of the past.

Relationships

i need relationships that
sear my soul
i gleefully draw too close
to the fire
set ablaze the forest
is made anew

i need relationships that
balm my soul
unflinching let us bear witness
to each other's wounds
and talk with healing hands

Death Is the Bullied Kid

Death is the bullied kid at school.
Shunned, ridiculed, lunch money stolen,
Avoided at recess,
Mocked by all--
Ostracized for being different.
Death walks home from school,
Alone,
The older kids throwing
Sticks & stones,
Jeering, taunting.
Death cannot go a day
Without suffering a rather violent
Wedgie.
My dear Death,
I will be your friend.
I will walk home with you,
Split my lunch money with you,
Play hide and seek with you
At recess.
You will be my partner
For the terrarium project
Due on Wednesday.
Death, do not weep.
I will be your friend,
No matter what the bullies think.

Cross-Stitch

needle and thread
punctuating fibres of linen
taut, release
another silky drop of colour
cross-stitched into white oblivion
as your voice
wavering so slightly
taut, release
says your heart is wide open
to rust, wounded in the
roaring wind
the cadences in your stories
are marked with
x's
blue, red, purple, green
my dear, take this embroidery
into your hands
what do you see?
thread by thread
i pull away the bleeding colours
of your heart's shroud
and stitch them
taut, release
into this veil of prayers
all our own

Los Militantes

todos los militantes son iguales--
la sal a que le falta su sabor salado.
¿y quien puede restorar el sabor después de su falta?
la sal está en las lagrimas de los más complicados--
los que ven el mundo con
errores y sutileza,
que ríen a los tiempos inapropriados,
y están distraídos en sus
corazones abiertos.

Mortality

Oh, sweet vagaries of mortality! Oh, you joyous anal polyps and goutish toes and bleeding gums! Ah, the sweetness of decay! Yellow spiraling fungus through a rotten log--the tree's mighty halo in death...would that my oozing viscera be half as angelic.

Allen Ginsberg

i have sold my soul to Allen Ginsberg--
let my eternity of holy howling ensue.
it will take me that long
to wash away my American baptism.
¡WAKE UP SOCIETY, CRACKER BARREL IS AN ETHNIC RESTAURANT!
In the name of the cocksuckers,
                         the sphincters,
                          and the straight jackets.
                           Amen.

In My Shoes

on the floor
writhing in pain
soul naked before God
bare
screaming
gasping
in desperation
until you have experienced
this
you will never know
what it is like to walk
in my shoes

Hiding

what is it to hide?
can there be any pride or dignity
in it?
to hide--
subsumed
in breathless
silence,
crouching
behind fear
itself.

Complete Stranger

the compassionate one
is with us
in your smile.
a thousand years of sun,
shining through the window panes
into your soul--
blessed am I to find the curtains drawn.

Mi Madre

no estamos en la paz, mama.
tenemos peleas,
pero ejércitos--no.
tenemos amor,
pero palabras--no.
me falta tu corazón, mama.
¿por qué nos separan las guerras y los acuerdos?

Mi Padre

me parece un poco extraño:

el oído que no puede oír nada--

cuando yo hablo,

por lo menos. 

me parece un poco triste:

el visto que no ve nada--

cuando soy yo mismo

en tu visión.

tantas memorías, y sobre todo,

el silencio total,

la oscura total,

porque vives en miedo total. 

Del Diario de Mandela, 4 Diciembre 2013

Yo deseo una paz sin domar. La sociedad ha domesticado nuestra esperanza salvaje, peligrosa. Tutu, Gandhi, MLK, Jesús—están puestos en la mesa de los poderosos y satisfechos de si mismos. Corro por las calles, gritando "¡Despiertense!" y todavía me invitan a los manteles blancos y cristales delicadas de respetabilidad. No más los ricos estremecen por nuestra mención—nos sugieren que sequemos el sudor de nuestras frentes con pañuelos de lino. Hacedores de paz—regresen a prisión, a los barrios. ¡Miren! Somos los bribones sucios en un sistema de opresión inmaculado. Los bien criados nunca entenderán amor tan desenfrenado.