“Wrong, wrong, wrong,
and so incorrect.  Cannot say enough
about the wrong of it,
the wringing of hands that follow it —

oh, it’s an opinion about something,
one voice, one view — still, such wrong
cannot be approved.  It doesn’t
fit, does it? How can such a thing

be said and let stand?  It’s about
the nature of art, isn’t it? Critical
theory?”  Labels and genres and
modalities, o my —

here’s the thing:
I’m going to go outside,
see the planets lined up with the moon,
say something of the huge cosmos

within which I’m so small.  Maybe it will
change things, maybe
it will preserve a moment.
Maybe it will matter after I die, after we all die. 

Now then, classify it
and paint it your color —
dead black, live blue.
I have better things to do. 

Hyacinth and daffodil
tenting the faded mulch
by the walk, yellow points
turning green
as they break through:

how demanding
they are.  How insistent
as they push up and back into
what we call “our world.”

If they win —
if they bloom and glow
and spring is eventually signified
by their emergence and
triumphant opening —
if they win,
what becomes of the brokenhearted?
Where will we cry then?

That’s one tall reptile
standing between us
and the outside.
If we want out,
we’re going to have to walk
under the reptile’s belly
to reach the road out of town.
It’s going to smell under there.
It’s going to be dark.
We’re going to have to make the crossing
in fear of him dropping lazily down
to crush us,
or of him deciding to wheel about
and lap us into his mouth.
We’re going to have to walk,
not run, for fear of him feeling us
galloping through.  
He’s so big, swollen,
maybe venomous though
he doesn’t need poison to take us;
our biggest threat may be
that he won’t even know we’re there
and our demise will be accidental,
a side effect of him shifting his bulk.
Pointless, unremarked deaths.
With the case laid out like that
the possibility
of us getting through
shrinks to not a prayer in this hell —

but then,
this is hell,
already.  And 
it’s not stopped us from prayer —

who’s with me?

“Be the change
you want to see in the world.”

I tried to live by that.
I began to disappear.

Can it be, I said,
that I am not to be

in the changed world?
I could not bear the thought

so I backed out of being
the change, and of the wanting

as well.  It all felt just swell:
the birds, the television, the bed

I loved as much as homeland
and heritage all took me back,

said they’d been waiting for me.
Solid enough — but soon enough

I found myself flickering.
What’s this, I cried, I don’t want

to change and I’m not being
the change!  Someone else

must be stronger.  Maybe
I’ll meet them in the new world

if I end up there someday
but for now I cower, see the mirror

filling with flowers.  I put a finger on the glass
and a violet came and met it with half an inch between

my flesh and its petals.  I don’t want this —
but I must say it is a perfect shade of blue. 

We did not have the strength to believe
how not slight and not brittle
she had turned out to be 

though her homeland was so broken
it was like breaking language itself
to speak of it and her

We stayed mostly away from her
(to let her heal herself
is what we said)

It worked for us mostly
though we’d trip over her dropped jaw
or stark rib now and then

When she found out
we were the world
and she was the children

she was angry
and lo and behold
was strong enough

to show us how brittle
we’d become
our smooth tongues notwithstanding 

We could not explain
to anyone’s satisfaction
how we’d left her alone for so long

once we’d known
and we splintered a little more
every day as we saw

what scabbed and hardened creatures we were
horrible comrades
who lied and turned away

not even close to being
the condescending parents
she’d never wanted anyway

who
would you sashay toward, do-si-do beside,
promenade or allemande left with
if you were caught in time,  
found yourself in the corny old elegance
of the square dance?

I picture you in gingham
and me in overalls.
I’m hoping you’d have bowed to this partner.
I’ve got a stereotype of you
gently rocking my head.
something lovely and odd and unreal.

now, who you gonna step to?
who do you want to grind with you
in the more familiar
dances of our day?

I’ve got a picture of that too
and I’m in it
and there’s you too, boo.
like what I see.
but it’s not happening.

let’s runaway from these pictures
and get real in that town from the movies
where no one ever dances
by law.  

it’s some kind of fiction
but let’s go there anyway
since this is some fantasy
and we can defy the dream law
and dance however we want
or maybe

find other stuff to do.
nothing nasty, just moonlight
and making stuff up
we like out of all the pieces from 
the past.  do-si-do, back that
up, do what feels good.  you know:

dance.

“Luck for the counting of wars
she has not seen.
May they be
numbered zero.

Love or at the least care
in every face she will see.
May those forever be
as numberless as waves.”

Had she been born,
I would have placed this blessing on
the girl I’ll never see, the girl I never had,
the one who’ll never be.

But I am content.  I did right
to not bring her into
the things
I have had to see,

though I would have loved her
had she been here.  I loved her,
in fact, enough
to have chosen to keep her safe.

Though some have called this selfish,
and some have shaken their heads,
I say to them that the greatest blessing
I placed upon her is this:

she did not have to know me.

first and foremost
be yourself

by all means
pull teeth if you’re a dentist
but if you discover
halfway through a procedure
that your patient has become a lion
drop the tools and run
you are no lion tamer

don’t be tempted
by the story of Androcles
into believing that the lion will love you
because you eased his pain
his hunger is always
greater than his pain

if you repair his smile 
all you’ll get
is better bitten 

the more of my old clothes I stuff
into bags to be donated
to those who can use them 

the more some will demand
that I wear those better clothes
I will no longer wear

they do not understand
or refuse to understand
or simply fear the truth

that sometimes abandonment
is the best choice of career
sometimes rejection

is the greatest —
indeed the only embrace —
I can offer my future

whether I end up naked
exposed and bitten
however I end in that future

I will be arrayed and adorned
locked in its loving arms
as I and only I wish

Looking for a gift?
This list
should give you
something to work from:

Favorite song:
an open tuned guitar,
randomly banged upon
unti it falls out of harmony
and stops sounding sweet.

Favorite book:
the burned one.

Favorite movie:
any set of credits.

Favorite food:
the fattiest, saltiest selection.

Favorite drug:
any of the Obliterati.

Favorite memory:
No real favorite, but
most persistent is of
the near death car accident,
seeing the boulder at the last minute
and swerving — senior prom night,
otherwise a good if dim memory.

Favorite photo:
me at 20,
peeking over the top
of a headstone
that bears my name.

The insulted clock
sees couples kissing
and stews, ticking indignantly
as they stop time.

What, she says,
is the point of me
when it’s so easy
to forget me?

Come on, she says
to one pair — two short women
wrapped in each other,
hands in each other’s hair.

Come on, get it over with,
get back to being able to hear me.
You can’t get away with eternity
forever,

no matter how good it feels.
I want to get my own hands on you
and remind you that no moment
should be immortalized

above any other.  Love me
and my insistence on forward
and direction and beginning
and ending.  It’s the best advisor

we have, that knowledge
of short time.  You’re messing
that up with love, pleasure,
with your deafness to me. 

Keep this up too long
and when you do come around
I’ll hurt you more than I want to,
and it’s nothing you’ll get over soon. 

Sometimes,
I let myself believe
I matter,

then the wind comes.
I lean away from it
just a little,

and then the sun forces
a hat onto my head 
merely by shining,

so I resolve to be quiet
and insignificant,
just another part of the world

working my small practice.
If it matters, it will matter.
What I do, I do because

I was made to —
what work is mine to do
was given to me,

and the importance
of me to the work
is as incidental as the sweat

on my brow is to the sun:
something to be wiped off,
a distraction.