he cried out
for water.
we are
thirsty
for peace.
starving
for justice.
they said,
“here. eat at our table.
feast on our lead.”
the bullet farm
has had a
bountiful harvest
this year.
the pigs
teach us to
cannibalize
as they
devour us all.
Shirt off,
Belly out.
Bandana tied,
Poop scooped.
Sunscreen…??
(What’s sunscreen?)
Humidity cursed,
Shorts soaked.
Shoes stained,
Weeds whacked.
Lawn mowed,
Forehead wiped.
Sidewalk swept,
Beer fetched.
at first—pictures of your newly-deceased mother.
Like a spiral, winding continually around
an ever-tightening curve toward a
vanishing point, those photos
nearest her death are the most
dangerous—no smile, eyes
glazed as if no light
resides, only raw
fear mixed with
deep sorrow.
You can feel
the lump
in her throat,
what she
tried to
swallow,
what you
are too.
~ After the first line of Charles Simic’s poem “Mirrors at 4 a.m.”
I am not bothered by the hands that have
tried to hold you before me.
They have meekly touched thoughts
that have altered who you are.
I thank them.
If you never saw the sky,
you would never know the ripples of the clouds.
If you never felt the ocean,
you would never understand the depth and openness of it.
I thank them.
If I had to do it over,
I wouldn’t have lingered and sat so heavily on past lives.
I would of learned more music just so I could
sing every song with you.
I would of lived freely with Grace.
If I had known that our worlds would collide,
I would have been so much more
thankful.
“It was written that I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.”
So I chose to sleep without thought, wrapped in the close embrace of ignorance.
It was nice to think that the hands on my slight shoulders,
the gentle firmness in the touch, belonged to someone else; a friendly face
or guardian, shielding me from the outside world.
But something about the bend in the elbows seemed strange, or maybe
it was the varying pressure in the finger tips on my back, that woke me up.
And I looked out my window, arms still draped around myself,
to see a world on fire. A voice from the dark reaches of my heart calls me back to sleep.
I clutch my own shoulders, all hard edges and sharp angles, to witness
children being cut down in the parks where they play,
women being fired upon in their own homes,
men being suffocated in the streets.
There is no time to mourn them, and there is no way to return
to the false peace of my dream. Have the flames always been so close?
How did I not hear the screams, or smell the smoke?
The white walls of my room begin to fall apart as I rush out my window to see…
“The world has no end and what is good among one people is an abomination among others.”
According to Norse Mythology for Smart People,
(The only source I want to read, thank you
very much!)
Friday is named for either Freya or Frigg.
The first name’s a title, “Lady,”
the other’s a first name, “Beloved,”
depending on which branch
of Nordic myth you choose to climb.
Party girl of the Aesir gods,
Freya’s famous as goddess
of love, beauty, fertility and fine
material possessions—like
magic glow stick necklaces.
In some of the Eddic poems
Loki slanders her(as Frigg)
for bedding all the gods and elves.
Known himself to weave a trickster net,
maybe her volva knack for conjuring
simply pissed him off.
She’d never let him sip
that ritual liquor.
He’d never ascend to Folkvang,
her afterlife for warriors.
She’d never share her feather cache,
or secrets for shapeshifting.
Tonight, when you raise
ritual cups to warriors who fight
for their right to weekend,
remember to toast the Beloved.
Thank goddess, it’s Freya’s Day.
Anticipation creeps
up from my toes
and sprouts out
my eyes.
Crisp,
the new case creaks.
A reflection
peering against
me–
Who are you?
Francis
Francis Fettuccine
Franny
Fran-Fran
Fran-The-Man
San-Fran-Cisco
San-Fran-Shithole
Francine
Francesca
Dario Francini
Francois
Franiel
Fuzz Ball
Pupper
Pupperoni
Piss Goblin
Mayhem Maker
Cabinet Chewer
Butt Sniffer
Small-Dog-Big-Teeth
Smol Doggy
Dingus Doge
Dirt Digger
Tailwagger
You are happy
Just to be called.
