Tiny Flame
tiny flame
dancing in the breeze
flickers when it gets too low
careful not to extinguish itself
floats upward
catches its breath
and
bounces quietly
to the axis tilt rhythm
upon which we stand
tiny flame
dancing in the breeze
flickers when it gets too low
careful not to extinguish itself
floats upward
catches its breath
and
bounces quietly
to the axis tilt rhythm
upon which we stand
alone
picking blueberries
furst one
then another until
fruit in hand
and the sky become
one
I have a friend named Steve
Although I’m not sure I know what friends are
People who give you stuff? People who take?
Someone who is less than pissed when you call at midnight
From your broke down car in the rain?
He’s so far that way he could write songs for Mother Jones
He thinks I’m so far this way Ayn Rand shines my shoes
All I do is wonder, a little research, a little algebra, a little logic
Form an opinion based on my observation
not my wish
I’ve shared several of these with you here these past few years
On carbon (your failure is moot – you never had a chance – you’ll never have one)
On solar energy (every person needs a tennis court)
On the fact that she really is a terrorist and how I knew
Some I haven’t shared
Like the environmental horror of making your phone
Or the cost of immigration
Steve and I are talking. He asks me about immigration and I say
“We have to shut the borders today. “
He, of course, disagrees and asks me why I feel that way so I tell him
“It’s impossible to plan our social welfare system when we have no idea how many people we have to plan for.” And, because I’m not even as nice as I appear in my poetry I continue
“You live off your Social Security, don’t you? How are we going to be able to make sure we have enough for you?” to which he responds
“Where did your family come from?”
Well, I can’t argue with that
The equations don’t change based on my heritage
I might as well be speaking Spanish
I made a mint julep today
And thought of you
You who are a ghost to me
You who cannot be reached
By any method I espouse
I thought about when
I had this drink beside you.
The agitation
I thought I heard in your voice
The tenderness
I thought I saw in your gaze
The worst part of knowing you
Has always been the not knowing.
I looked out the window
Took a long draught,
As my father would say,
To your happiness,
And spit it out in the sink.
Cast a protective shield in
the shape of the United States
light seven advent candles and
a stick of dragon’s blood incense
invoke the ghosts of slave owners
with handfuls of dust and voided
checks scattered at your feet
fill a pewter chalice with
water from the Rio Grande
drop the bones of fathers
and sons into the water
stir with an eagle’s feather
let the bones marinate as you
masturbate to completion while
meditating on the image of Moloch
hold the chalice before you
in your small tangerine hands
chant America first once for every child
covered in dirt behind a Texas fence
drink deep the broth
of asylum and belch
blow out the candles
and clear the circle
take a scalding shower in salt
water and bacon grease while
the energies do their work
and just a reminder as you
take part in this great work
never kneel
Clearly
you are the kind of man
who knows his way
around a beach.
Clearly
you are the kind of man
who’s seen his share
of the searing Florida sunshine.
Lithe,
but not necessarily lean,
you stroll casually along the beach,
your skin now the deep leathery brown
of an experienced beach-goer.
None of this would be
remotely remarkable,
save for the fact
that the slight pooch in your belly
protrudes ever so slightly
over a curiously small pair
of black Speedos,
coupled with a baseball bat
you so thoughtfully
slung over your tan shoulder.
Where is your towel?
Where are you heading?
Do you have a plan for that baseball bat, sir?
Do you have permission to wear that bathing suit?
Were I alone,
without children,
I would follow you to the ends of this beach
to see
where all of this leads.
Say you move out of town.
You look at some pinto beans & a Jiffy mix,
add 3 tomatoes and a Yankee pot roast,
send your sons to UDF for peanut butter shakes.
Let’s say your wife makes 2 piecrusts with Crisco
and not lard because, goodness, grow up.
Say you move out of town.
I don’t make enough money to juice cleanse,
to own property, to walk into the store
with intent to purchase. My retirement account
is the one lotto ticket I
allow myself a month. To live in this
consumer age, I believe all I need
is a carbon steel pan and an island
to store all the food I don’t have,
clothes that fit my body just right
like the stuffed wallet in a rich man’s
rear end pocket, pants held up
by a luxury belt made from exploited labor.
Give me your king-size bedded, your private-jetted,
your young entrepreneurs yearning to be tax free,
the white male elites of your teeming shore (of Norway, say).
Send these, the multiple-homed, money-loaned to me.
I lift my lamp beside their red MAGA hats.
The rest of you:
go swim the Rio Grande.
