I’m good. I’m OK with this
walking, talking, working, being —
all the while wading through, falling in,
playing in, loving in a field of shit.
I’m OK with this. I’m good.
Live with it long enough
and you will be too. I mean
live with it, really learn
the game of shit, the process of it.
How we made this for ourselves.
How we added blood and flesh
to the mix to make shit into bricks.
How we Rumplestilskinned it into
this yellow stuff and called it gold.
You love to be revolted by it.
I’m good enough now with it to admit it
and if not to embrace it at least
to know how far away we are
from a clean-up. You are going gentle into it,
gently forward as if you ever could be clean
having been born here, raised here, made here.
You won’t even admit you can smell it
on yourselves. You say it’s the other
side. You say a lot of things, talking shit
and it smells like it. I’m OK with it
which is not about acceptance
as much as it is about seeing it and saying
it’s there. It’s everywhere. I’m soaking in it
up to my neck sometimes and sometimes
I play in it just to keep from drowning.
Sometimes I even enjoy the game. Sometimes
I even dig the music. Sometimes I have to
take a little joy from watching the horror
rather than let my self slip underneath
the crust on top, never to come up again.

The savage tiny wars
have brought you at last to this one
where you are facing your enemy
over middle ground
you both disdain.

You still need to fight it even though so many
who say they’re on your side
are trying to claim there’s nothing at stake
that a willingness to meet out there
in the line of fire couldn’t salvage.

That’s quite enough, thank you,
you tell them. You’ve seen
how soaked the middle ground is
with the blood of those who listened
to such nonsense, and you know,

as they do not, that most of the
the iron-red soil in the middle ground
is permanently muddied
with generations of good intentions
that were slain by bad ones.

Maybe some day the middle ground
will be arable, even fertile, but for now
you put aside any thought of plow
and seed. That will come later.
You raise your weapon. For now, anyway,

this is how you hope.

True story: we have always hated others
as if it were possible to fix fractures
by denying existence to those
on the other side, as if what is left
on our side could be whole enough
to sustain us.

Now we claim to have turned the page
and are better than that, pointing with pride
at our story of our sound and strong nation
that is in fact teetering on a scaffold
thrown together on barely knitted bones;

it is insulting that we dare to say
we are bewildered at the agony radiating
from every aging, failing seam,
as if the moment we are in is merely a footnote
in a book about our truth,
as if any of the chapters is complete
with no mention of pain.

— an inaugural poem

Healing can certainly knit
an odd bend into a bone
but even so you will have to
lay your hand on a book
and swear to go forward

although you may not be able
to reach as far as you
once did and even if you can
it will feel different
for a long time

There will be pain

That it heals stronger
might turn out to be untrue

You won’t know right away

You may think it’s fine and then
suddenly one day something
will remind you it’s not
the same

Maybe you’ll learn
to compensate

Maybe you’ll shatter again
in the same spot

The break is there
You can’t forget it
and now you will find out
what it will mean
to the rest of your life

An idea needs a noun and an adjective
to cling to as it grows. So we say, “red rose.”
Or, “stiff drink.” Or “fascist state.”

We push it with a verb and name an actor
to do the pushing, as in, “He plucked a red rose
and, after a stiff drink, raised his eyes and put his hope

into the fascist state.” Or, “With his placement of a red rose
on the coffin, he closed his eyes and pledged
to never give up fighting the fascist state

and swore off stiff drink until
the fight was won.” An idea longs for
its noun and adjective in order to be born.

Verbs move willy-nilly, dragging
their adverbs with them, mighty prepositions clinging
to all the words, drawing things together

in spite of their tiny stature. People think
they make words do their bidding.
Ideas? Ideas run the people. Ideas make it all happen:

red rose on a white flag;
white rose lying muddy in red street;
near-fascist state casting about for a leader;

big gun full of leaden ideas;
steel jackets on wanton mannequins;
skinjob soldiers eating honey from open corpses.

When a question of love
is spoken out loud
a country may turn on a dime
swift as tornado, sink into itself
claiming a pain in its footing
makes it weak, or raise an alarm
of daisies as fragrant with blood
as with its own home soil; see

in this moment filled with
a question of love, of what and who
and how will it manifest itself, a country
refusing its own affections, some beyond
its acknowledgement, some more than it
can bear — how far it spins itself
away from embrace as it twists back upon
its old haunts and legacies;

a country slipping as it spins
avoiding a question of love, falls
upon that sword it has held to be
its best lover, turning bloody scars
back upon itself in a storm of petals
and fiery odor, how it imagines
high winds at its back instead of
blowing out from its core.

1.
A single quarter
falls out of my jeans
as I pull them off —
the usual Washington
on one side,
John Brown’s Harper’s Ferry fort
on the other. Once I’m settled
I put it in a safe place
as a token of
what was once possible
and now is just
small money.

2.
Chad proudly notes
that he dates women
of other races
but secretly admits
to himself that it’s
mostly as
a forensic
countermeasure.

3.
Can you see how
anonymous the streets are
now that they’re covered
in tossed-aside
masks?

4.
When the counting is done — counting
of cases, masks, and votes —
the dead shall surely come back
and shake us by the lapels saying
pay attention, pay us mind.

5.
It didn’t feel like anything,
really, after a while, and that’s
hard to understand. Some
seem more upset than others,
certainly, but in the last analysis
all clear emotion
is the privilege
of the involved
and I somehow
am no longer that.

Behold: a country of nested
borders.

Look at it and be awed by
the Big, the Bright, the Beautiful of it.

If you manage to twist it open and enter
you’ll find another within —

less Big, less Bright. (Beauty is in
the eye of the contained.) If you

go in, you will find another,
and then another; it will be dim in there.

At the heart, a battered core with two faces:
one, Black Kettle, the other, Nat Turner;

it is nowhere as Bright and Beautiful
as the Big Doll you can barely recall

now that you’re
all the way in and can see

that even though it is full,
it is also hollow.

They will look back upon us and see us for idiots
looking for stars to do work we needed to do.

They will say the great conjunction
was not Jupiter and Saturn’s illusory closeness

but our own embrace of magical thought
in the face of the growing heat and disease

that took us down. They will say this
while shaking their heads at how

we ignored the mocking laughter
of the implacable science that runs the universe

as it rolled right over us. Our hatreds
spread like a plague even as a true plague

spread just as fast, as we choked the oceans and air
until we were choking as well. The Great Conjunction,

they will say, was not the doubled up light in the sky
but people down here, a black hole,

angry, scared, crowded
into one another so tightly

nothing could penetrate.
No light, no heat, nothing in there

but faith in the efficacy of crossed fingers,
crosses, and whatever the stars might say —

although the stars said nothing except
this one, dear people, is all on you.