Courage
is a ruffle
on a suit
at a funeral,
a puffy sleeve
in a sports bar.

The bravest people I know
are not the instantly, drop a hint and it happens
nude ones.
They are the grandmothers
in huge hats
perched on shrunken heads
and turkey necks,
the old men with the hiked up pants
and flat asses.  Sweatpanted
chunky moms, dads
with the weekend beers
thrust out over the belt.

Anyone who says
this clothing
is mine, I chose it,
I reveal myself through it.
Then, if you want the real me
to get naked for you,
take this hot but honest mess
as is
and prove you’re worthy
of seeing my history
uncovered.

That’s a beautiful place
you’ve got there

As intricate as
a sand castle

It’s so
lovely
With such fragile materials
and such a fickle base

You’ll excuse me
if I prefer to walk around it
and ooh and aah
rather than move in

Do not hesitate to spill
your gasoline blood
near an open flame.
Do not fear to approach
the angel of justice
when its sharp wings are open.

Don’t imagine the world is safe.
Do what you need to,
shiv the guard before the gate
or bed the devil who carries
the keys to the kingdom.

Just don’t expect to come away
with your prize without a scar,
because claiming to honor
the impulse to danger
and then insult it
by attempting to render it
impotent
is to die indeed.

They are before you now, the teeth of the Hydra
waiting to fall from the jaw
you swear you want to bust open
and grow into a army arrayed against you.
Are you truly ready to fight?

It’s on? We
all over that shit? Got it covered,
you got my back, I got yours, we got this?

Yeah, I’m with you,
down for it,
I’m your boy.

They got nothing
for us.  Nothing.
We’re on top of it. They

got nothing for us.
They
ain’t shit.

Let’s go.  Bring it
if you got it.  You ain’t got shit
and you know it.  Big talk,

all you got’s talk,
bring it, let’s
go.  Let’s see

what you got.

Choosing not to know
something millions know
is a luxury

Whether it’s the nature
of oppression
or the story of the hot game

to choose to ignore
what’s in front of you
is an easy way

to segregate yourself
from your brothers
and sisters

and raise yourself
onto a pedestal so high
you can see

only the long view
of the ants below
while you pat yourself on the back

for your superior
vision
and grasp

Held it in my arms
as it decayed
to charcoal, as pieces of it
scaled off and crumbled
and fell at my feet.

This is of course
why I picked it up
in the first place:
I only hold tight to my chest
what will fail me
most visibly.

I love the sound
that rises from the ground
when I tread upon it
as I walk away,
and the stains on my arms
that offer evidence
of my martyrdom.

When the last word
of English is spoken,
when it finally dies
and is forgotten,

everything we know
will disappear into the forest
where the ghost languages
recall their recounting

of feasts, lovers, wars
and memory, descriptions
of mountains and oceans,
specific words for snow,

sand, arrow, child,
mother, warrior, wine, bread,
chill, dawn, night, embrace,
holy, evil, baker, poet, song.

It will not matter. Someone from the next
dominant species will begin again,
trying to snare fact in the wind.
It’s always been thus: one voice fails

but the world itself remains to stimulate
the next voice to falter, gain strength,
describe the truth before it. The silence
breaks and then washes back into place.