salty days

Be not afraid
when you hear the lion roar
keep watch above
in the lonely darkness
chop your way through
the thorny tangles of the forest

you may feel
like a beetle on a runway
a little leaf
on the stones of a fireplace
a skinny child, with a torn shirt
waiting in the doorway

Remember that the mind
can be dull and the
heart whispers lies to us all
but your blood
will always show you
 the way to go

your greasy, mysterious
 oceanic blood
holds every one that
 came before you
  and they have won
           every battle
or hid themselves more craftily


  you are the watcher and the warrior
the mother and the escape artist
 and so
be not afraid in
these terrible times
    because
a nation of heroes
    sleeps inside you.

forsazhe

The truth of her is flower between keen stones
blasted by  summer heat or beaten down by  rain

There are no others like her, because she stands alone
 When she's lined out straightly, she's drab and plain

It's the rocks in ancient state that are her mother's bones
and the roots unseen that spark flowers into flame

Pity the poor puppets who blindly pass her by
so full of hidden promise, so pleasing to the eye.

ha ha ha shitpost

Let's hear it for the good times,
  green lawns and gasoline
cold drops lazing down your glass
    a hot day kept at bay

Hooray for my sweet girl
 cotton candy and corn colored hair
    my American dame
she likes to kick it nasty

  me gotta get that
me gonna hit that
 me so stupid and
 predictable


  America, fine
you are
so good at church
 so down with whoring

         from the window
to the border wall
        twerk permits
and Oxycontin

    bitch, you like it
you say daddy choke me
 "i can't breathe"
is not a safe word

     like the song says,
my country tis of thee
 you get the ankles, I'll get the wrists
          it's come down to this

                  I'm longboarding down
the scaly tail of Satan
     With a menthol behind my ear
  and a song in my pants.

Feeling good

 You can't make this
        stuff up.
Am I the only freak
       in the waiting room?
walled in by wailers and whiners
          salty snot rivers,
 getting smothered by a soaked wet hot
        blanket of shame.

  When I hear a stranger bemoan a tragedy....
       bubbling with a loss so deep
they are willing to show their entire shame,
   I get to have all
 the feels, the pinata
       of loss
the licorice jelly beans and
         coffee chews of
     the crap sadness

  I can't be the solitary one
     that shrinks from
 the towering shit show
     of meat emotion

When I say that
  I am sorry
for your loss,
  what I really mean to say is..
      get the fuck away from
         me and suck it up

When you, a virtual stranger, grab
       me and wipe your nose on my
 shirt, I give you an awkward squeeze
      and say something about the almighty
 just barely keeping it on the chain

      to shove my two sword fingers
        into the spot where your lower jaw rests
           about an inch
            below your ear lobe
                   and p-u-s-h

           while you gasp, and maybe pee your
             pants a little, I say..
         Goddammit, man
             stop giving up
         your gaping asshole for the world to fuck

                    because, i say with a wise smile,
      feelings are stupid
             and should be avoided.

Ostrova

She conjures blue
  skies, oceans,
         cornflowers,
   amethysts

  a white crane
      dots the water
        sending dreams
      to bending reeds

        A bird so beautiful
it makes you cry
   when you think of it
       gone away

  her gift is that dream
     that makes you grab
the handrail
  to keep from falling

       ( hold your breath,
           have you  ever
                 heard her make
                    a sound
                          ?)
           

What I have learned about grief...

  Last week, NPR asked its listeners to submit a poem what started with  the line above...

   What I have learned about grief..
           Is that  grief won't pass you by
even if you act like you're on the phone
          or studiously avoid making
 eye contact with his scabby visage.

     He will be at every stop sign
           on the sidewalk
will tug at your pants leg
      wanting his heavy slumping
weight to be picked up.

   Try to ignore him and it will be
like hitting your shin
 on a ball hitch,
or slicing your finger
    when you cut lemons.
but all the time and every time


You have to sit with him
       on the porch when
you watch your neighbors
   ride their bikes,
hold hands, and
       play horse on
 their driveway.

He will ride shotgun
 when you go to work
and cry with you
  in the parking lot
     
Grief is an imaginary friend
   that nobody wants
but everybody gets.

La Chingona

The owl would not dare
to call her tree home.

  Ladling out posole
   possibilities and
     bowls of caldo
 de sabiduria

  This wisdom is
from the dust of
    experience and
the watchful faces
     between rain
 and fire.

She will marshal
   the grimy children
and show them
       when to be silent
and when to be loud
       to whisper
and to sing.

This short giant
    will wield her sandal
to protect the innocent and
     admonish the wicked

And when she departs
  she does not leave
    but stays with
the earth
     the smoke of the fire
        the truth
      of the river.