We lay our hope
these days

upon imminent endings:
the last mortgage check

slid into an envelope
and dropped into the mail;

the last “click”
on the “Pay Now” button

on the car payment
Website; the meteor

from on high
rendering the need for action

on everything at once
obsolete. 

O beautiful,
for fiery sky,

for closure 
on our pain.

Sing it, 
my countryfolk,

my weary troupe
of roleplaying warriors.

Curtain call,
final bows,

leaving the dark theater;
then, off we go to 

our debauched
after party.

Partings
are all we have to 

anticipate now;
do them drunk and

lawless. Do them weepy
and raw. Sit up

alone till dawn to wave at all this
one last time;

wait for the sound
of  “Paid In Full” 

being stamped on our notes;
lie down to rest.

When you knew it was over 
you did nothing drastic,
did not weep or moan. 

You tucked
all your loves
into their beds,

went outside
into winter rain,
sat on the step

at the end of the walk
and got soaked through
listening to the highway below.

Late night traffic, still busy,
people heading home,
you tell yourself,

though in fact
you don’t know that.
They could be fleeing,

could be joyful or manic and
destination-free, urged along
by a wild compass within.

You had to make it up
as they went along, because
you weren’t going anywhere.

You had to believe
they must all be going home.
Home felt safe and solid

and someone had to be
as safe and solid, as
clear in their intent

and execution
as you were not.
The cars rolled on

and you sat still
in the rain, soaking 
through, still trying

to pretend all of us 
would be fine,
you liar.

There are three basic themes to manifest destiny:

The special virtues of the American people and their institutions
The mission of the United States to redeem and remake the west in the image of agrarian America
An irresistible destiny to accomplish this essential duty

Historian Frederick Merk says this concept was born out of “a sense of mission to redeem the Old World by high example … generated by the potentialities of a new earth for building a new heaven.” –

– from a Wikipedia article on Manifest Destiny

On a Tuesday.

A Tuesday.

A day so normal it couldn’t bother
to be symbolic. So not 
a weekend, so not a week’s 
beginning. A Tuesday. 

That is when it happened.
That is when we began to fall
for the last time. 

It was in every way inevitable
that we would at some point
stagger into history
feeble and angry, our shaking hands 
holding our most ancient swords 
to each other’s throats, but
because we did not call ourselves 
an empire,
we forgot how they have all ended
and so we missed it when that ending
started on a Tuesday. 

Which Tuesday? Which date?
No telling. Truly,
no one is certain and no one
is talking. The date doesn’t matter, 
the weather that day doesn’t matter,
the stars lie about everything
so why the date should matter
is unclear:

just say 
it must have happened
on a Tuesday,
the day built for 
anticlimax.

your dark-blessed mouth
moving without sound

your hands involving themselves
in matters beyond their grasp

attaboy
attaboy

your room glowing blue by burning
all your hardened regret

your screen full of targets
your attack rationale on dagger point

attaboy
attaboy

owning your enemy
you’re a pain collector

owning your arguments
tangled web connector

attaboy
you are top of the pops
attaboy
you are king and that throne you’re on

is lit

your hair’s a rude mess
framing your face

no one thinks of you ever
till you start to bark

attaboy
attaboy

if you had a dollar for
every sneer you’ve delivered

you still wouldn’t be rich enough
to want to let this go

attaboy
in love with your damnation
attaboy
toast of the distasteful 

attaboy
attaboy

Some people love
the look of an eagle
so much they forget

the terrible things
an eagle
could do to them

with that
noble head
and those tenacious feet. 

The eagle
will be mostly unconcerned
with those people

until they 
pose
a threat,

and then, then
we will see
what happens:

the gripping and biting,
the tearing.
The panic. The blind support

for more of the same
as long as it’s not done
to them.

If you dance with The Ghost in
a miasma of brown and red
If you stumble whirl
into their pit of mad violence
If you have no love
for those fallen underfoot
If you cannot bring yourself
to lift those broken to safety
If your fear of The Ghost
stifles your love of Living
If you cannot kiss without panic
and The Ghost insists
on tonguing your twitching mouth
If you cannot smile without screaming
and The Ghost demands
both smile and scream
If you fall writhing upon hearing all this
because you know The Ghost
knowing neither name nor face
If you are not yourself The Ghost
how can you keep dancing
knowing you are dancing in blood
merely because it is easy
merely because you know this music so well
you need not even listen

In this slim hole
named home
angels of discord
jostle for primacy, 
raise up fresh dreams,
conjure new hybrids, misshapen 
offspring of dreaded ancestors
and fearsome strangers
who somehow look familiar;
bring to mind names
we are afraid to utter
for fear of them turning,
smiling, nodding, 
calling us kin.

Do you find yourself
wanting to run away? Do you
long for new and open country,
unfenced, empty and clear?
Do you find yourself yearning
to move somewhere new
and become someone new?
To escape these bitter demons?

More to the point: are you certain
you aren’t one of them yourself? Are you
running from yourself? Is it possible
that you are at heart, when faced with
what you consider unspeakable,

a colonizer?