You May

You may make god like from the stick mud and ash of yourself, a better human, you can become a light in the shivering darkness of your communities cultural closet; an iconoclast breaking molds of engineered despair – but to do these things, you will need let go of the identity tether you made up as a mysterious small child

You may make of gold or silver an altar on the snow plain of someones labor or you may carve your face onto a glittering gem or you may erect a monstrous edifice with your name embolizing its crown; you may do these, it is possible but is it wise? The beacon of history shows only what you may interpret of its distant sound.

You may forbear speaking out loudly against or for a secret or recently discovered code or hesitate to draw a map showing the multiple ways your fellows might follow you out of their confusing conundrums; this might make you a saint, but bring no laurel, so you figure what’s the use – you decide, you’re the only one worth saving, instead.

You

who stands who walks who speaks who listens who laughs who cry’s who sees who’s blind who pulls who pushes who bakes who eats who study’s who doesn’t who makes who destroys who argues who agrees who is bold who runs who sleeps who wins who loses who spends who saves who controls who hurts who heals who milks who drinks….

Eight Lines About Man

Progeny
Two foot walker
Prehensile grabber
A single generation removed from dirt
An experiment in intelligence
The Achilles of the world
A target for arrows
Man.

Because You Fear Father

You may or may not love mother,
but you definitely fear father,
and that’s the problem.

You will forgive mother but as
for the rest of the world, well
hell, let those fuckers burn.

If idiots had acted responsibly
we wouldn’t be in this mess bent
over the knee of fathers jealousy.

Get the belt, I’ll wait here
until you return for the hot snap
whipping you know you deserve.

Father metes justice in slurred
sentences, well timed beatings
and exertions of my house, my rules.

Bitterness and hell fire comes
from the sky father, not the green
grass mom who buried her dead son.

No one recorded her rebuttal to that
death because apparently she
preferred forgiveness to revenge.

You may or may not love mother,
but you definitely fear father,
and that’s the problem.

As Elegant As Torn Denim

I never write what you want me to, I don’t even write what I want to, instead my writing is a reportage of the sounds bouncing around me. I am freer that way. It is easier to report than to invent. My poems are not inventions, they are a synopsis of a thousand better emotional expressions than my stunted ramblings about how I might feel about any given thing.

A boy was playing in his backyard near the gas meter at the bottom of a cement stair, banging at something when as if by some surprising magic he ripped his thumbnail off and then he ran to his mom crying a bloody despair.

I could tell you that I am a business man of some repute. I could say I wrote a book that many thousands read, and continue to still read. And I could tell you that I once found a fabled pearl, a legendary wonder of milky whiteness which I sold for a great price, but why?

A boy who felt better running away than standing in the foreboding embrace of a mother too far gone on mom pills, fleas to Hollywood High School and meets a princess named Penny Nickles and learns a valuable lesson about honesty, she saying, admit to who you are and as hard as that might be it is better than staring in a move with no possibility of a sequel.

The man behind this poem is older, with more words trailing than words leading into a future, but why should anyone need to care about that?

The Wheelchair Lady

She wants, like you want; to be met with applause like you want walking to end in destinations. She wants, like anyone, especially you, to be adored for a brilliant loneliness defied, daily rejected and overcome.

She rides in a chair with her head tilted towards a shoulder, her eyes fixed skyward, maybe making meanings of blue, maybe not thinking at all. You turn away to other matters, less disturbing bodies and make plans to go to a movie.

She is a charity poster of pity, a woman, a body, someone with an inner life, her hands limp and crumpled – her lips part to speak about life, how it really hasn’t been tragic; but you have moved to another theater, already.

Complicity

I Maybe I

Essentially human, but star-seed after all: a line drawn, a bible held, a whisper beckoning anyone adult enough to be responsible.

Wanted like water, needed like shelter, hoped for like treasure, a modicum of respect, a smidgen of reciprocity, a safe place for living.

Choice, but no choice, outcomes raining babies, incorrigible sheep, and one day wunderkinds all falling like glass shards in park lands.

II One day II

Mother said, listen to spiders, wasps and serpents; learn the language of lairs, and dungeon thieves, but trade not your life for theirs.

An owl glares and dares the dying to live again, but a fair moon will not repeat nursery rhymes, and your clock may awaken to something, but then again.

Complicitous┬ábecause it’s convenient; who wants to work at being human, when the fields of civilization need so much tending.

III We’ll Change III

Marry me android beauty. Take me to your virtual bed, be tender for I am a tatter of muscle and bone separated from my ancestors gift of logic and wisdom.