“You know,
every line on my face
is a dry riverbed of hate.
I hated myself,
others, life and death,
money, problems, solutions.
I lifted my eyes unto the Whatchamacallit
and asked for it all to be taken away
and nothing changed. So I hated
the Great Answerer for not
answering me. There were moments
where that hatred
took me over, and the displeasure
of the Lord washed down my cheeks
and washed me out. Now, I live
like a hobo in the landscape
I have despised, trying to drag
a living from it that doesn’t hurt,
and I am lost, the arroyos
of my skin are dry and lead back
to the heights that have been arid
for many years, and I wish I knew
how to love, how to fill and flood them
until my whole face seemed as smooth
as the surface of a lake, still and calm
in the light of day, reflecting back
love I never allowed myself.”