It came to me as
I was sharpening my fastest knife
on diamond stone. Oh, she’s a
quick one, and was soon so honed
I was able to shave a vein
with her. That’s what I wanted —
to shave a vein
without nicking it enough to bring forth
the dead-flow; just clean off the extra meat
and reveal the light source
that guided the tendons
as they pulled the fingers
into pen shape,
knife shape,
holding shape —
all I wanted was to see
into my wrists
to learn if there was light inside,
wanted to see how the hands
knew where to go —
and then, I slipped.
I saw. I gave in.
Daily Archives: September 22, 2012
Why It Was Not A Suicide
Your Dog
Here comes the pup, right up
to your nose. When you look him in the eye
with a shushumsmooshumnomnomnom pretty puppy
you’re actually praying, saying
I remember you from the savanna, the forests
where I was prey and you were predator.
Roll over on your back and let the pup
drown you with his face, his wash, his tongue.
You laugh and gurgle through it,
thinking, telling him
I recall how you stole meat from my fire
when you were hungry, when you were young
and alone. Were we speaking pre-German then,
Saxon or Gothic; were we speaking pre-Zulu,
pre-Yoruban, pre-Arabic? The pup keeps rolling over
with his belly in the air and you’re scratching on it saying
I recall you barking, and understanding the nuances,
the rough snap of those calls. So much has changed.
We have a book that calls this “dominion,” have another
that calls you “unclean,” have another that calls for you
to be skinned and boiled and eaten as a delicacy.
Puppy, you don’t have a book, do you? We aren’t required
to translate ours for you, open them to debate. That’s a mistake.
I want to know what you think beyond the easy slurp gospel you preach.
Pup is pure wag now, unfiltered unspeakable joy.
Shushumsmooshumnomnomnom…wind whistling around
the throne of heaven.
Give up that Bible. Love him back,
your oldest friend, your last adversary,
your second in every duel…hell, your dog says it all.
Coffee Warrior
The modern mourner
regrets genocide and repression
immediately upon opening his eyes
while listening to radio news in bed.
He rises every day
with a few fat tears.
They fall into his coffee cup.
He sips, then sours
on the taste — is this fair trade?
Next time, he decides,
he’ll buy fair trade
so it will taste better. So he
will be better. To halt
genocide and repression
in their tracks. Economic, social
justice from this warrior king
every time he finishes a coffee
he has yet to buy or brew —
wipe away those tears,
you beautiful man! Someone
will be bound to love you for this.
Dark Matter 