when in the course of human events
it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve
the marrow from their own bones

spooning it as filler into holes in the ground
perhaps sneaking a taste if properly prepared
spreading it to dry to dust in sunlight

when in the course of human events
it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve
those empty bones that cannot hold them upright

once hollowed and lessened those bones shatter
people then limp along accustomed paths
stagger and tumble
slipping upon melted pools of themselves

when in that course of events
we humans gather to share our fears
we always light a fire 

last night we talked until late of our best intentions
rose as the fire burned down
tossed the last combustibles into the embers
watched them flare up and light green eyes
watching from the forest beyond the edge of the yard

we said

technically
those are our people too 
better for us that they stay over there on the edge of the yard
beyond the edge of the light from the dying fire
when they’re over there we can make them into whatever we want
but when the fire dies they’ll be able to define themselves
we may not be included in their self-definition
for the sake of the nation and all that we call holy 
let’s not let the fire die

when the fire died
we limped inside
on our splinted ankles
our self shattered bones
the taste of our marrow
on our own lips

we listened to the tumult in the dark
the sound of parade and carnival
and took one secret moment
to admit we were justly accused
and also glad
for the celebration outside
and the dawn it portended
even as we feared it 
in what was left of
our porous bones

I pull bricks
one at a time
from where they’ve been
embedded for years
in a decorative ring
in the soil around
the base of
my big oak

and then
carry and stack them
a few at a time
along the back fence

they once may have been
part of some foundation
once may have been solid
and crucial 
now 
they just dull my mower blade

it’s not that I need to mow
this scrub lawn often
it’s just that the way
my money’s going
I may never be able to afford
another mower

I don’t know why
I should save these old bricks except
they were here before me
and were built to last
so
I tell mysef
they might come in handy
eventually
when the world changes
and I’m back on my feet

but secretly
I know why I’m loathe
to toss them
today

tomorrow
a target
might present itself

What kind of turtle are you
that you have such a sturdy shell
but won’t stick your neck out at all?
What kind of crab are you, claws out
and scuttling away in every direction at once?

Zoology demands explanations
for such adaptations —

your tossed-back eyes,
your slight but telling
head toss,
your half-raised hand
flicking contrary voices away —
but you have none.  What worked once
doesn’t now.

How will you ever develop
crucial hybrid vigor
this way? Your contempt

is staggering and would be
laughable
if it wasn’t so damnable.

One day,
you’re going to see them
standing over you with
cooking utensils or
cages, and you’ll wonder
how this could have come to pass
on your perfect island —

and they’ll tell you

it was the horizon you never saw
and how it encircled your entire world
that made it so easy to sneak up on you
and leave you nowhere to run.

there is hooping.  hooping it up.
in flashmobs. hooping flashmobs.
poetry slam flashmobs hooping it up.
ghost riding hoops. slamming hoop
flashmobs of ghostriders. protest signs
on hoops at slam flashmobs. tweeting
snakes hooping ghost ridden poetry.
ghost written poetry flashing and slamming
hoops of protest. anti-union angry birds
riding ghost on poetry slammed with tweets.
angry tweeting birds posting videos of flashmobs
hooping it up poetically for the unions.
radioactive seawater soaking into angry birds
oily from spills and poetry. ghost slamming
riders tweeting protest and mobbed up flashing
hoops at rebels. rebels and angry birds
flashing apps and tweeting unions at ghosts.
riders and writers posting birds at anti-union
warmongers slamming hoops upon rebels.
uprisings hooped and angry with birds on fire
and oily radioactive tweets of protest ghosts
riding and slamming poetry in mobs that flash.
war on the angry birds.  flash on ghost unions.
bind the radioactivity in a hoop. slam the mob.
slam the mob.  the hoopers.  the rebels.
the unions. the birds.  oily angry birds
post a video of flashing war.  hoop it up till the birds
flash no more anger.  till the unions
are slammed.  till poetry rides ghosts.
till oil slams down upon the rebel mobs and protests.
till all that is left to us
is angry snaky tweets.

Tags: poems, poetry, politics, meditations

The Policy is a symmetrical beauty.
Each facet is mirror to another. 
Fire’s sprinkled and sparking throughout.
In the center of the Policy, there’s
a violet worm.  It wriggles,
a threaded bait on a holy hook.
We’re born to strike when we see it.
It’s not food, we know.  We know
toxic to the core when we see it,
as we do with peach pits and the like.
But as with those seeds,
there’s the expectation
that it’ll grow into fruit.
That’s why we strike at the worm
in the center of the Lovely Policy.
That’s why they make the Policy
so irresistible.  We long for a fruit tree
to grow inside us and keep us
full and happy.  When the worm twitches,
we tell ourselves, “Oh, it’s coming!
I can feel it growing!  Soon, soon!”
And there’s a war, and a poverty,
and a greed outside but still
we focus on the worm,
saying, “It was so Lovely
when it was in the Policy,
surely we’ll feel the leaves and blossoms
soon, soon!”  It’s not a seed, though;
it’s a worm.  A worm that won’t become
a fruit tree, or even
a butterfly.  When it gnaws through us,
we say “next time, then…” as we fail,
and gutter out, and die.  Soon, soon
enough, the worm is lifted from us into
another Lovely Policy.  See how
it shines.  See its fire.

We aren’t about to address the storm
if to speak will change our voices.

We’ll watch it tear our sacred groves
into splinters.

We’ll stand in front of it
as it lifts us into the rubble.

We’ll whisper as we cower
under the eaves hoping it will pass.

But to offer a word against it,
spell out our power and force it back?

No.  Not that.
It’s not a good time.  It’s not

what we were made for.  We were built
to watch it kill us

and then blame someone
for not speaking.  We were made

to be silent and let the storm
carry our voices away.