1.
cursed be the past in repose upon its legacy whether true or false.
cursed be the imagined landscape of plenty and peace.

cursed be the flag of mistake and protection of the one at the expense of the Other.
cursed be the song performed upon occasions of contest and symbolic war.

cursed be the paint by number picture of normal and right and ordinary.
cursed be the faces made up to seem divine and honorable.

cursed be the banners of cowardice and treason made to seem virile.
cursed be the weapons borne openly into street and school and synagogue.

2.
holy the color of truth seen in spite of prism and lens and curtain.
holy the strength restrained by robbed wallets and pockets sewn shut.

holy the fullness of the body in defiance of the shame of expectation.
holy the strength of the body when taxed with reluctance and sorrow.

holy the ground full of origin bones waiting to be dug up and displayed.
holy the diggers of bones as they lie awake in the storm of disturbed ghosts.

holy the mascots and caricatures donning their own skin again at last.
holy the snake in the deep crust writhing and preparing to break through.

3.
we lay the prayer upon the day whenever and wherever we wake.
we lay the prayer down on the table before the selective feast.

we lay the curse before the blessing as it shall be swept before it.
we lay the curse out with eyes open and skin ablaze from centuries of flame.

we can only be quenched when the fullness of the fire is revealed.
we can only be healed when the darkness in the center of the wound is illuminated.

we claim the curse as our own to bind it to our work.
we claim the blessing as our own and free it to go where it must.

They tied people
I might have loved 
to stakes placed high

on piles of gasolined wood,
bound them with ropes
they bought on my credit.

They set those pyres alight
with bills I handed them 
from my wallet

and when the condemned
screamed, they turned
my music up loud enough

to make it seem 
that the cries of the immolated
were distant,

discordant coincidences
not in the soundtrack
from the start.

I bowed my head 
and looked at my hands;
empty, supplicant,

stinking of
accelerant, blistered
and scarred from heat.

They also held my tears
and though I wept for it all,
though my weeping

should have added
salt to my wounds,
they barely stung;

when I looked up
at the ones tending the pyres,
I saw my hands there.

On Gardner Street the cobblestones
no longer hide under asphalt.  It’s an
axle-breaker road, used by some

to cut from Main South
to a faster route to downtown, 
one not as direct but with 

fewer obstacles once you get past
the hard historic rumble
of Gardner Street.

Even though driving down Main Street 
offers a straight shot it’s never been easy
to get to our shiny downtown from Main South,

even before the rebuild,
the driving out of the old tenants,
the tear down of the old church,

the ripping of old fabric in favor of something
artisanal and pure and much more 
wholesomely rough;

if they haven’t
paved a condo courtyard down there 
with vintage cobblestones yet,

they will. 

Back on Gardner Street,
right near
the new Boys and Girls Club

(located off of what they used to call
Kilby Street
until someone decided

that name
reminded too many
of who ran the corners there;

GPS still calls it Kilby Street
though all the signs
are down and trashed)

drivers not already
in the know
keep slamming into

that open pit of exposed cobblestones
and either brake hard
or break down hard.

Townies know better. They know
what’s under
every shiny new surface. They

know what will render
your shiny ride useless.
Know what it means

to be shined on. Know
what their streets 
used to hold. Know

real people live on Gardner Street
and they don’t always 
just pass through.

Until they fear you
as much as they make you fear them,
they will not feel you at all,

will not feel you as human
until you fell a few so they can see
you are as capable of mayhem as they are.

This is a blasphemy, you say?
A spiral down to their level?
You can’t be serious.

Once they were as you.
Once they understood. They did not
come to this on their own: they were

guided to it. Do not forget that
even as you tear into them
and teach them to fear.

They see you as insects,
pests, vermin;  you must see them as
human, even as you strike them;

only if you feel no pain 
at having to do as they have done
will you join them at their level.

Did you ever imagine anything
could creep up on you
as this time has done?
Or did you expect it,

as many of us have,
understanding how the original gods 
of this land were stripped
of honor and turned into

marketing tools and silly icons
for the Colony to use
as it saw fit? Those
shocked by the soul insult

of that revelation, step back;
there are so many here
who watched the rising and,
knowing what was to come,

built their lives under armor
and raised children so wary
of the future they believe 
it may kill them early — 

and if it does not, 
their lives will be hard
but filled to the rim 
with moments of tough beauty

and bounty formed of luck
and grit in iron bond.
Your continued shock is insulting.
Your paralysis is not surprising.

Those who know old gods
know they do not die.
That you didn’t know this
tells us who may survive.

Dragons originate
in cones of fire,
hang lit and glowing 
low in evening sky.

Some people
fancy themselves
warriors on
worn, dank couches.

Others reach
into their chests
to pull actual weapons from
long concealment.

The air
becomes so warm
no one will be able to recall
any dream ever again.

Ash on every tongue 
except for those 
used to licking
boots and gold;

their starvation
will take
a little longer
to commence.

If there is an Angel, 
no one will know it
until its last trumpet echoes
are almost faded out.

As for our children,
they will surrender 
themselves to fire,
to ice, to flood,

to earth cracking,
to the ravenous
remainder of us, and some will 
certainly die. Some will no doubt live:

learn to ride dragons,
how to bury the past,
how to bury the dead
so they stay dead

and do not come back:
no resurrection,
no glory for what’s gone.
No letting it up from its grave.

the pale-faced
standing around

crush and grind
brown art then

roll it up and
burn it down

they’re high on 
theft

they don’t see it
that way

at most they’ll claim
it’s about admiration

any appropriation
an innocent mistake

but make no bones
about it — certainly

not the bones
they flicked aside

before they lit up — 
they know exactly 

what they have done
high on stolen lives

they create
what they call

a vibrant multicultural
experience

that from this angle
just looks more like

more of the usual
white smoke

This place:

messes and 
deliberate fractures,
victims strewn far and wide,
their hope crunching underfoot
like broken windows.

Also this place:

geological beauty;
light, color saturated through;
deep songs for the easy grace
of unstressed human being.

Not hard to understand
how one can look
at the entirety

and burn though
with the urge to stop loss
and fold the wounded
into an embrace and
turn oneself
into a shield, 

then explode with lust for
punishment
of the guilty, 
death rage against
the wreckers.