Originally posted 9/29/2009.

In a world
wracked by anger and justifications
for anger

Glass Fist,

weirdest superhero of our time,

breaks his hands
on yet another villain’s face,
leaving the enemy shredded and wailing
and himself
crippled
yet again.

Back at 
the Fortress of Righteous Anger
his snickering friends watch

as he thrusts his hands 
into the Superkiln
and refashions them once again,
blowing shape back into each finger,
gloving them after they cool.

“What, exactly, is the advantage
of this particular superpower?”
they ask him. “You’re only good
for two shattering blows in any battle
and then we’ve got to save
your sorry ass.”

Glass Fist smiles and bows his head
in assent as they laugh — 

but later, when
he is alone in his lair,
Glass Fist pulls off
the gloves
and the mask.

Stares into his palms —
so clean,
no trace of blood.
His true and naked face
stares back from them
stained by tears,
soaked in doubt.

Originally posted 3/19/2012.

You look like a man 
in need of a punch
to the side of the head

or a piercing
in the side of the body

You’re looking for something that hurts
Something from the hand of a punk
or a Roman soldier

Something you can add to
your Martyrdom Book

Something as good
for starting a conversation
as any 
suicide attempt
colossal drunk striptease
bad haircut

Something to tell
the LADIES about
over a bottle of tears

You look like a man
in need of a narrative
to put it all into

A man in need
of a rabbit to tear apart for effect
as if the rabbit were an envelope
and the winner’s name was inside

A man in search
of a terrible weakling to be

A man
who knows his disease well enough
to call it up for a ride
when he needs
to get somewhere FAST

A man who’s not going to get
that much needed punch in the head
from this guy
because this guy
has no desire
to help you
win your victim badge 

Originally posted 4/27/2009.

Nothing against
palmistry and scrying crystals,
Tarot cards and Zodiac.
All serve the purpose.
It’s their modern monopoly
on divination
that’s troubling.

People act if they couldn’t
find peace and clarity
in the random jumble
of socks in a drawer
or the shadows of skyscrapers 
knifing across downtown streets 
if they tried
when every jammed closet
is a cathedral if you know 
how to pray in it. 

Whenever the ancients and their arts
are called upon
to tell us where we’re heading, 
they must ask themselves,

who are these frightened people
who do not understand how to make do
with what’s right under their noses, cobbling together
a peephole into time from whatever is close at hand?

All we did 
to meet our God 
was add a little attention 
to the mundane.  

Look into our own hands, pick a rock
from the ground and stare into it,
notice a truth when we gambled, 
ask the sky a question and listen.

All we did to meet God
was look for God,
trusting that
we wouldn’t have to look far.

Originally posted 3/14/2008.

the random blast
one block away
is just a backfire for once

and the neighbor’s reggaeton
ripping a hole in saturday afternoon
seems less loud

when there’s angel food cake
on the coffee table
for yolanda’s birthday

daddy’s home for once
instead of serving someone else’s chicken
to someone else’s guests

mama’s not looking as tired
as she usually does
after a week on the fast food register

the whole family’s here
bearing hot dishes and foil pans
full of what they’ve made for each other

someone drops some mac and cheese
in a corner
the dog gets to work on the pile

while everyone laughs and yolanda claps
her smile’s more delicious than usual
with that smidge of frosting on her chin

yolanda has a love for angels
and seven years worth of joy bubbles up today
for all these angels bearing heaping trays

of cookies and wings and old recipes
they just call “grandma’s favorite”
there’s white bread and stewed tomatoes

but yolanda’s got no business with that
when there’s sweet sugar frosting
clinging to the white crumbs on her plate

outside this room
there may be people addicted to devil’s food
and the darkness on their lips may be rich enough

but in here yolanda’s having a birthday
with her yellow dress sweetened by more
than the smear of angel food that her mother

rushes to clean away before that dog
starts licking it off her
(even though

yolanda
would probably
beat him to it if she let her)

when she’s done
she turns to her sister
and says

something sweet
and a little sad
but a little more full of hope

the words are lost
in the sound
of the beating of wings

Originally posted 12/16/2009.

No one photographs him
more than once
after they realize
that the only pictures
that show him happy
show him onstage.
All other images
make him look like
a pillar of salt.
Apparently, to fake
confidence in the future
he requires an audience.

What’s his motivation?
He gave up everything
to gain a spotlight.  But
that smile you see up there
is genuine, if fleeting.
Stick with that.
Next time, use no flash.
Catch him standing there
in his natural setting:
darkness all around,
pretending like mad
that light is the Sun.

Originally posted 3/7/2011.

Sometimes I plods until I stops
like I’m made of gods. I’m walk till drops;

I lose a little ground and then
fall, impounded, anywhen.

See the bloods? Mine, I thinks.
I’m stone that floats until I sinks.

I’m not that mad, just split kaboodle
without a kit.  My bad; I’m doodle

on a napkin all grease and stain.
It’s where I wrap a little brain.

Sharp, isn’t I?  I scissor though
and maybe shed a scrap down low.

Bursty me, shell of once upon.
I’m never dim enough to not be on.

Sometimes I plods and then I stops.
Leave a trail of gloomy plops.

Let this be the Big Reply:
Smile, then weave a bit of die.