Why, sparkling, of course
From the moment we arrive
We learn to choose the sparkle
Our eyes seek the shiny
We reach for faceted wonder
Conditioned for perpetual motion
Lest we miss out or lose out
After indulging decades of sparkling
Shimmering, effervescent chaos
Today, I choose still
bless the heat that bears down on me
bless the body that withstands
bless the sun’s setting
bless the respite of night
bless the cool of the morning
bless the breeze that it brings
bless the window above my dishes
bless the dishes
and these shriveled hands
and these shriveled hands
bless the day
I softly gazed into the bathroom mirror for a moment.
I noticed the grays in my hair,
how long it had grown,
my face and its developing age.
Graceful, I say.
I let my hair down,
flowing in waves to my waist.
Without hesitation, I begin to braid,
each section given its own name.
One strand for safety,
two for joy,
three for gratitude
for every day that came before.
I dab on my new moon oil perfume,
wash my face,
and oil my skin.
There’s glitter on my legs
and within.
I gaze into the mirror once more
and smile at the woman staring back at me.
Man, she looks so happy
Lightning bursting through the sky
Bright and brilliant and then it’s gone
Branches growing high and wide
Absorbing sun’s rays, emitting air
Delta fanning out to sea
Raging, rushing torrential currents
Vessels running from the heart
Pumping and coursing life all throughout
Bronchi spreading through the lung
Breathing deeply and expelling air
Nerve ends shooting down the skin
Sensations felt what the heart cannot
Neurons forming in the mind
Personality. Creation. Love.
All of it
Thumbprint of The Architect
work out my growing pains?
Would I ever be as funny as Carol Burnett,
as slick as Barbara Feldman?
Could I possibly bewitch a man as Barbara Eden
or nose-twitching Elizabeth Montgomery did?
Stride onstage as pert a woman as Marlo Thomas
or as hard-working as Mary Tyler Moore?
Sure, suspending disbelief is all part of the game
in sitcom-land, but what do you think?
Have we really come a long way, baby?
Six Seconds of Sin
You’re In
Its the New Zen,
Controlling Puppets
Poor
Poor
Puppets
Faces and Arms
Hands Feet
Limbs and Sin
All Up To My
Whim
Outside Everyone’s
Rushing to the bottom
of the Hare Hole
Clawing Through Mud and Bones
Hoping to Uncover
The True True
before Armageddon.
Will They Make It?
All Bets Are Off.
The Suspects
Are Lined Up
In Front Of Our Eyes
Yet we Hardly Look,
Always looking down
Into Our Mirrors
The Puppeteer Gets Off
On Power
He Feeds
She Feeds
Fed Isn’t A State
For the Gipetto
I had a Vision
Wet Paper
Those Ink Stable Ideas
Wiped Away with Colorful Phlegm
My Castle that
I held
With my hands
My feet
My eyes
My nose
My bones
Now a Memory
Held only by my
Mind
Bitter sweet
twist of Fate
Whats a Castle without Cats?
Without Comfy Chairs
And Cozy Beds
A castle is a place to clean
A castle is a place that creaks
A Holy Home
Waiting For the Next
Heart
To Heal
Collection of Comfort
Compressed Inside
A Tiny
Tiny
Tinier
Tiniest
Home,
A Novel Hovel
Our Front Porch
Steps Above the Common Folk
Traded
For a Looking Glass Pool
Shared
Steps Below the Concrete Common Floor
An All Cleansing ReBirth in a Beerfest BeeHive
Cigarette Buds A Plenty in the Hearth of Mud
she walks in, having
gathered enough courage
—hopeful this time’s
different
no longer subjected
to judgment and
condemnation when she needs
safety in
community
that stands up for her
stands together with her
tends to her heart
not just welcome there
they
accept her completely
Every few years the flags come out. Faces painted. Anthems memorized.
Entire nations remember they are nations.
A striker scores in the eighty-third minute and someone cries
in a bar six thousand miles away.
No borders move. No governments fall. No cities burn.
Commentators speak of battles, campaigns, defending territory,
national pride.
Eleven young men in matching uniforms become temporary vessels
for millions of private longings.
It is difficult not to notice the resemblance.
For most of human history the neighboring country was not a team.
It was an army. The flag meant someone was about to lose a son,
a harvest, a language. The body evolved for that world. Perhaps
this is why the nervous system still responds to jerseys
with such vigor. A safer outlet for an ancient appetite.
The desire to divide the world into us and them.
To gather behind a banner and experience the intoxicating certainty
that our people are somehow special.
Better.
Chosen.
I suspect this is why relationships can feel so paramount.
Two people carrying centuries of tribal software into a kitchen,
negotiating dishes, bedtimes, text messages, as though
the future of civilization depends on who apologizes,
who is right, and who wins. We all have done this.
Turned another person into a country.
Defended borders that did not exist. Interpreted small slights
as incursions. Gathered evidence. Mobilized grievances.
Prepared speeches. Forgotten the person
across from us was never the enemy.
The match begins. The crowd roars. No one dies.
This feels like progress. And yet
there are moments when the old machinery shows through.
A missed call. A hard tackle. A goal celebration.
Suddenly millions of strangers are furious at eleven men.
The same machinery that paints a flag across a face
can paint an enemy across a lover.
The World Cup is people singing together,
dancing together, believing together.
How easily love becomes hatred
of another. How quickly a flag can transform
from a symbol of celebration into a weapon.
Two people who spend ninety minutes pretending to be enemies
are now exchanging jerseys, embracing, taking photos.
How many relationships might survive
if we learned to do the same?
White hair, tightly coiled
Resting quietly in its follicle
Grows like kudzu in the night
