Here is a relaxation
exercise to keep you from
becoming way too intense
when faced with the dinosaur thump
of how to get through a day in America 
when nothing that opposes you
relents at any point:

first place both thumbs into 
the corners of your eyes and 
push out the balls until there’s room
to fill the sockets with blue soap 
that will foam when tears
fall into it as the eyeballs slide out
into the greasy air;

once that is complete
lean forward and let it all fall to the ground
where suds and tears will bloom
slick flowers from the cleansed pain and 
ask those nearby to describe them to you
while your eyes are settling back
into sight.

You will find yourself rising: no one
goes through this sort of thing
and remains close to the earth
for very long. Tensions that have been
your anchors will be unleashed and
so you will levitate and then soar, your eyes
still wet enough that all will be blurred
and dazzled with the new light.

You ask if the pain
and blindness are necessary?

Without them
you would find yourself
seeing things the same as ever.
You would not fly. 

You ask why you could not
simply meditate as they do
in other places
and as you’ve been taught?

This is America and
without the willingness
to lose all and see it all again
differently when you
come back to Earth, 
relaxation is just another word
for a huckster
to hang a dollar bill upon.

One star.
Red spearpoint.
Lily, gladiolus.
Seaberry, yew.

You stitch
culture from 
whatever pieces 
you are given.

Make your world
under a star
you call a god.
Preach of it riding on 

your spear tip.
Lay flowers on 
warrior graves.
Drink acid from 

a berry,
build a bow
from a sacred tree.
Isn’t this easy?

Tell me
you can’t remake
a world given
these parts

and I will show you
a mirror and a 
smoked fish on a plate
and say: eat, coward,

grow strong on
fire, then I will show you
red and brown stone
sealed in white ice

nested in volcanic soil;
ancient seeds,
a ruptured flute,
an intact oud;

all those once enslaved, 
all those once displaced,
all those ripped from their thrones,
all those standing with fists

full of bloody skin. 
I will say: there.
There’s a new thing
to be made from these

while a song for planting
and release will be sung
by grateful millions.
You can bend to work

with them. You can 
tear your palaces apart
and offer your gems
to whatever star

you choose.  You can
bury those dead
who have longed for
comfort in good earth

knowing they have fed
new life. You can say:
here is my spear,
here is my bow,

then give them
to these now living among
lily and gladiolus,
seaberry and yew.

Lay your old tools down
under your 
demoted star’s light
and fall silent.

Those millions need not
build for you
as you did not
build for them.

Those millions
need not build
with you;
if you forget that

you become a piece
to be chosen or not
when they begin a new 
world under some

star or no star, with
your flowers
and tools,
or their own.