This cannot save me from my lungs of fire,
Burning houses cradled in a fence of
None. This cannot save me from tires piled to
Heaven, from systemic hate, indifference,
Rattles on the tail poised to strike. Not from
Self-congratulation, nor self-censure.
This cannot save me from a shelf, from a
Quiet little corner where I can dream
Out the rest of my breath. It cannot stem
The cravings of a body or mind, or
Treat us any kinder than the prospect
Of death, that silent magistrate and law.
But it can live beyond that final test.
It can go on and sow its seed in the
Fertile belly of the Earth, feed the dreams
That churn within her breast, till she gives birth.
Sing for me. Sing for love and hope and years
Transfigured in the Eucharist of time.
Sing for all that is beauty, all that is
Lovely and precious and sublime. Open
Your mouth and sing for the pure carnal joy
Of making sound. Sing Blessed Assurance.
Sing that you once were lost but now are found,
And prove it in the singing. Sing for me
In spite of the daily barrage of your
Happiness, in spite of the well-rehearsed
Architecture of your smile. Sing even
If it feels ridiculous, in spite of
The raging cliché. I don’t care. Do it.
Throw it away. And maybe if you sing
Loudly enough you won’t be able to
Hear all the reasons not to, anyway.
My little baby doesn’t want me
To write poems on my phone. He wants
Me to write them on my face so he
Can see them, read them, and understand.
I hope this poem finds you
Before you surrender to the
Everyday, before you learn
To tie a tie and stand up
Straight. I hope it finds you
Young at any age, dreaming
Whether sleeping or awake,
Full of hope no matter who
Or what and when has happened.
I hope it finds you while you
Are still becoming you. I hope
It finds you when you are old
Enough to have learned to
Love and to believe, Young
Enough to not have forgotten
Either. Most of all I hope
It finds you; I hope it finds
The truth inside of you and
Sings it into fire, spells it into
Web that shoots from star to
Star and spins for love and
Beauty on the axis of an
Atom. I hope it finds you
There, and that you look
Into it as a mirror, and you
Love what you find.
A lion lives here.
Keep your feet up at all times,
Or they are forfeit..
A little strangeness
Spread about the normalcy
Aids in my breathing.
I am a poem.
This one time, I enjambed my
Toe. That’s how I know.
Fifteen years later,
I hold my son, smile, and eat
Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
What hath iron wrought? Before the sweat
There were moments of stillness, quiet
Places taught colors to sing for those
Who would let themselves listen. Before
Our feet the birch bark paved eternal
Roads to moments where self meets self and
All meet quiet. What iron, who paved
Colors still, who taught sweat before feet,
Who sings roads before quiet, who would
Listen to self themselves, place moments
Of birch bark wrought for colors before
Those who sing eternal, before all.
Find me, neverending friend.
Find me with eyes that burn through
Happy-ever-afters and walls of stone.
Find me with sacred scars that keep me
Callous to the song of renewed hope.
Find me long after I have disappeared,
After the rope of my mind has frayed
And split, after the blue has swallowed
All my fear and all my bones.
Oh, that you would find me!
The frayed song has renewed my walls.
Rope burns my callous eyes blue long
After the sacred ending. Nevermind my
Happy split scars, frayed ever-hope.
Nevermind stone renewed and long
Fear. Find all that has disappeared.
Find song long after bones. Find
Ever-renewed hope, a friend.
I don’t want to write another
Poem about stars and blood and
Moonlight if it doesn’t point to
Meaning. I’m not sure if sticks and
Stones would really break my bones, but
Words will always sing, will always
Ring with truth, and color, and the
Everlasting Other; tomes of
Alphabets to tell you all the
Moons and bloodied stars and stones and
Light compiled within a single
Bone will sing the everlasting
In song we make dreams.
In dreaming we make meaning.
In waking, singing.
Wenn ich der Kaiser wär, Amerikaner
Würden Amerikanisch kaufen, ja, und
Amerikanisch verkaufen. Meine Mauer
Wäre die beste, die ungeheuerlichste.
Ich würde die Künste rauben und der
Grenze geben. Ich würde packen viele
Pussies, und alle meine Klagen ruhig
Zu begleichen, mit den besten Leuten,
Und ich würde unserer Türen zum Alien
Schließen, die Kinder des Vaters Abrahams
Vielen Söhnen. Reue hat gar keinen Zweck.
Reue ist etwas für kleine Kinder.