distraught parents
don’t know what to do
their children
have fallen in love
with dust storms
they reach for a bible story
god
is coming soon
come in out of the grit
the kids are otherwise enthralled
they aren’t waiting for that late god
instead they start a faith
borne up by watching the wind
bore holes in rock
for their parents’ faith
has bred in them the need
for something to judge
go tell it:
warn this buff fuck
on the corner
something’s coming,
gonna brush him back,
brush him up,
don’t matter how big he is,
he’s gone if he don’t
move;
tell that python-thighed lady
she has no good hold
on her step, no matter how
she clings she’s gonna be
taken;
gather every still-happy kid
and get them inside, away from
the windows, back in the back
away from the war side of the house
and put them on the floor
down low, low as they can
go.
and now, as for you:
right now, just stand
in the shadows for the moment,
just the way we always hung back
among the trees, watching for steel
and fire, listening for dog-hungry
men to come up the street pounding
doors, smashing walls, licking the ground
to get a taste of what they
seek.
only a fool
can’t see what’s coming.
you’re no fool.
get a grip on something hard, and stand
until the moment comes
to swing it.
go tell it:
it’s coming.
again.
To let your own blood with a straight razor
(whether by accident or not)
is to understand how easy separation
can become when you are not thinking
You say, is that ink
The line is so straight
Then it blurs
or perhaps you touch it
One side of the wound
leans away from the other
The brilliance spills over
as if from a jostled cup
Your heart speaks in drumline
as faster comes the flood
If it were not so terrifying
it would be such a danceable beat
You would dance
partnerless in the center of the splatter
as if that first scarlet line
marked the end of a page of music
There above it was the instruction
da capo al fine
take it from the top
all the way to the end
If it wasn’t so terrifying
at once it might be exactly
what you’d most
want to do
It’s a new world out there
and while I’m glad to be alive in it
a lot of folks have left me behind
to see how far it spreads
so
sometimes I’m as lonely
as a drop of piss
left behind
in that proverbial boot
that’s been turned upside down
by an idiot reading the directions
on “pouring piss out of a boot”
that are written on the heel
it’s an old sad joke
but the idiot doesn’t get it
and apparently neither do I
since I can’t seem to fall free
it explains a lot
A memory of fire,
stone axe,
and tears
wants your arm
to extend itself
in a sweeping blow
from time to time.
Something
about the sight of tears
hinting red in the firelight
on another’s face
still makes some part of you
sing, and you could swear
there’s a flake of stone
in your shoe that cuts you
at every step.
Pain, war, grief, anger:
with all this killer memory
loose in you,
tearing you,
wounding you,
I wonder if you’ll still be alive
when it finally comes time
for you to die.
They strut their fur
on our streets,
tails rolling and breaking
in proud waves as if they believe
our homes, sidewalks, cables and poles
were built for them.
That said, they scatter
when we come out;
apparitions of alien intent
walking among them, beings so unfamiliar
that no accommodation
can ever be made for us.
Deep down,
we know
they’re in the right.
Dark Matter 