Originally posted 2/7/2013.

My dance, my bad;
here’s my deep
bad dance. 

I gave a sorrow entrance,
loosed it on
the gap within, now there’s 
tantrum, keening, layabout,
fling about and cry. 

Going to victim this whole long day;

bury face in kudzu, funeral bouquet
for never ending grief show. End up one 
sad grinder.  End up damp with bad 
with bad still soaking in deep.

Still, got rocker hips, 
roller ass, jazz groin;
joy ends up somewhere
when pushed out of 
head and heart so
off to music while still in the hole
to give my bad, my deep 
some resistance.

Rhythm’s big mole digging in;
earth body now a quake 
spilling light, starts rubbling
the dark village.  I, frightened, shake; 

dance my dance, my bad, my deep.  
My gotta happen. My joy’s
on the far side of gotta happen.

Originally posted 5/11/2009.

No sir,
no.  I won’t
grow up — I’ll
grow down instead,

drawing from the earth
shadow nutrients, 
gritty water.
I will serve the Goddess of Dirt;

though I may present to you
a form that seems
symmetrical
and bright,

it springs
from the insistent tug
of holy underground.
I grow down.

I send up into the sun 
trunk and branches
to be seen, admired, climbed, 
used for shelter or shade, 

logged and laid out
in board feet 
or carved into
utilitarian shapes.

The tree is what you count as important —

but that’s not the truest part of me,
no, no sir.
That stump you leave behind?
That grip of roots holding on

long after you think
you’ve gotten
all of me
that matters?

Try grinding me out,
blowing me up, poisoning me. 
I will remain Hers.
I’ll be there, somewhere under

your feet,
well and deeply dug in,
still saying my 
“sir, no sir”

to you
with the ring
of sucker shoots
that will rise from me,

offering Her
a live crown 
for Her dark
and somber head.