In the moment
of crisis called 
today —

not to say
that all moments
of every day do not contain 
crisis for someone —

not to say
that it has not always been so
and that it will not
always be so —

not to say 
that this crisis here is not
the result of someone preventing
their own crisis there — 

not to say
that some crisis has not been made
by someone to make their own life
comfortable —

not to say 
that in fact all these earthly crises
do not have a thread of preventability
and volition tacked on somewhere —

in this moment of crisis called today I
am looking up and seeing it all as a Calder,
a mobile swinging —

huge and weighty disguised as flight
and light but all suspended by a cord
thinner than one would imagine —

not to say
it is incapable
of holding it
any longer — 

not to say
it will surely fail shortly
and crash, 
killing or tearing up all — 

not to say
anything other than 
if it were given
a good shake,

today might as well
be renamed
The End.

If a cup of some
store-bought tea leaf-dust
is enough to calm you, you should

make a cup. If a moment
before the window, staring into
dirty city snow at drab birds,

is enough to make you feel
a stab of peace, by all means
be seated with your cup 

before the window. It’s OK
to turn off the news for a moment
and pretend that there’s nothing

to worry about, nothing to be done.
It’s all going to be terrible for a while yet
and there’s a lot for each of us to do —

but here you are and here’s the tea 
and those sparrows and no sun out there
so the gray snow for once matches the sky

and there’s no immediate war to fight —
sit, have a moment, no matter how engaged
your life has been you have a right

to stop now and then, to see now and then a reason
to turn back to the news and the struggle
and the work.  See how they are, those birds —

they often stand completely still
for a few seconds at a time
and still manage to fly when they need to fly.

The storm is later than was forecast.
The wind hasn’t yet begun to shift
the dunes on the Cape, there’s no snow yet
in the Worcester hills. People
will soon be complaining
about the weather report,
even though it has favored them
so far with its inaccuracy — damn,

don’t you love people? Don’t you find
them as ridiculous and adorable
as infant Tasmanian devils, baby
demons as cute as any little
flesh shredders could possibly be?

The Super Bowl was on last night.
Half the audience hates half the audience,
half hate the halftime show, half hate the
commercials, half hate
that it even happened at all — damn, 

don’t you just love people? Can’t you
see them in all their inscrutable glory
asking for absolution for every petty 
act of genocide they’ve ever assisted
through the practice of minor binaries
and trivial hatreds? 

In the meantime the bees are swarming
less and less and there are fewer to swarm
at all.  In the meantime the winds
are starting to change, ruffling fewer furs,
whistling over drier lakes, taking more
bomb dust with them. In the meantime
we’re waiting for the loitering storm – damn,

why don’t you love, people? It’s not as it
there much time left. What could it hurt
to try and love? Except for the proud legacy
of standing alone in a carefully selected crowd
of your well-conforming peers, there’s not much point
in hanging on to it. Why don’t you just adore us,
people, we the maddening mad people? How different
we are from each other, how very much the same?

Let’s discard the easy ways
used by too many: no hijacking,
sniping, spraying of bullets,
or strapping on of explosives
required for this.  First step instead

is to be unapologetic: as it is,
you are deadly enough as you are
to some. Your body is a terror
already to someone: look around,
see how hard they work to disarm

its sights, its smells, its presence.
See how they fight your natural being?
You can simply be that and do the job
well enough. To take it a step farther,
find an ally or two: a partner, a lover,

a friend — anyone who’ll step to the target
with you. We’ll say that no one needs to get hurt,
although no one believes that, really; someone
likely will. It may be you, it may be them,
maybe everyone will get hurt so don’t go there alone —

although it’s hard not to feel alone when racing toward
impact, it will be better when you know
there’s someone beside you, even if
all you have to reach for is an ancestor or a hero.
Take heart in knowing who carries your armor.

Lastly: it’s not hard to pick a target as they
present themselves so often, so casually, that 
it’s nearly impossible not to strike one daily, hourly,
second to second. You will barely be able
to stand after some of those cratering moments, slowed by

visible pain, invisible wounds, yet-unknown
long term effects. It’s not my place to tell you
to stand tall and take it; you will do what you do.
All I’m saying is that you will be a warhead 
without ever trying to be so it may be worth doing well.

Be whatever you were meant to be: sleek or stout,
dark or light, strangely obvious or as normal
and nondescript as a sheet of paper. Know 
your trajectory. Be ready to fly — and when you fly
you will land somewhere, so level it.

The last goddess
sits on her suitcase
waiting for a bus 
to take her away.

The people here
are mad either for no god
or a sky god, and she’s
been mostly forgotten

in the salty war around
the existence or non-existence
of a Big Guy; here,
everyone’s a partisan

for either Phallus or Fallacy
and when no one bothers
to offer worship or sacrifice
to a goddess 

she moves on,
ever practical,
seeking a temple elsewhere 
that needs a new occupant. 

The last goddess
is getting gone while
the getting is good. Not for her
the second class status

of an also-ran, a decorative
memory, a pocket full of 
quaint.  She was made for war
and wisdom and this place

wants one without the other now;
she was made
for grace and mercy
and neither is well-honored here.

She will catch the bus
and go where she will be welcome.
Some here will miss her
when she goes, but a goddess 

never settles for diminishment.
The ones who love her will go with her;
whatever is left behind
will be forever on its own.

Let us now detain
an empty hand.

Let us now arrest
common sense.

Let us now place it
in a box of steel.

Let us now arraign
our commonwealth.

Let us now remand
the pleading glance.

Let us now bring to trial
this asked-for mercy.

Let us now convict
a simple demand.

Let us now deny
one last appeal.

Let us now execute
final hope.

Let us do it
again and again until

one day let us 
stop, let us stop,

let us stop before we
are devoured by an appetite

for order untempered
by justice. Let us

release ourselves
from ourselves.

Margaret Fuller
Transcendentalist
once said
“I accept the Universe”
to which 
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Transcendentalist
replied
“Gad! She’d better!”
I would have made
a lousy Transcendentalist
under such a
thought regime
When it comes to the Universe
I accept that it’s here
and that I’m in it but I suspect
acceptance of this is part
of an elaborate trap
to keep me blissed out
You can tell me otherwise
but right now I’m thinking
of other names for it
and other ways it should be
and how it might be best blown up
and refashioned
I don’t accept it as is
and Fuller and Emerson
(who for all their talk of justice
and suchlike seem to have done
more talking about than fighting for
the best possible Universe)
can do what they do best and
go take a hike
in the Utopian woods
out on the edge of this city
that is a part of the Universe
that is a part of my Universe
that is a wobbling wheel
of broken spokes and worn hub
and tread that can’t catch a grip
on the filthy blood and toxic sludge
that’s rising everywhere
that gets on everything
that is impossible and immoral
for me
to willingly transcend
without making an effort
to actively reject it 
and expel it from 
this Universe

With a flag
or an outrage or
both

With an obvious
eagle on forearm or
brainpan

With a car or truck
as large as 
fear

With a laugh
or a smile tagged
on a tossed-off slur

With a figurative
cigar or real blunt or
other prop

With a gun
or a penis or 
whichever

With everyday carry
assisted open or fixed
blade ready response

With a patriotic
terrorist or thief killing
erection

With a superhero
attitude like a flag pole or
suppository

To end all
with muscle
and swift action
To create a legacy of peace
by forcing others
to assume your constraints

To be all American
and all Man 
A half-cocked
toy-happy boy
in a schoolyard 
you only think you run