Cargo Container
My 20 foot cargo container
is Hunter Green with White type.
it holds all my storage items
and closes nice and tight.
My 20 foot cargo container
is Hunter Green with White type.
it holds all my storage items
and closes nice and tight.
I wanna be
a TV wrestler
rocketing off
the rubber band fence,
kicking someone
upside the head,
smashing them
in my scissor grip.
I will wear sequins
and satin,
lycra and lace,
with glitter
on my hands,
so everything I touch
sparkles.
My poor frazzled opponents
will glow
with tiny shards
of sparkling mylar,
which will clog their drains
like so much iridescent concrete.
I will rise, victorious,
flexing my pinky
and slaying them all.
…if you’re maybe being a little too honest.
They’ll walk with you to every end of the earth
as long as you are staying true to yourself
and where you are at.
…if you’re starting to feel sad or anxious again.
They’ll sit with you and hear you through
all the things that have you feeling blue
and you will never once hear a complaint.
…if you’re still hurting.
They’ll wrap their arms around you like bandages
and check your temperature with thinking of you texts,
How’s it going? Hope you’ve been doing well.
…if you have to rage or vent frustration.
They’ll be able to take the heat,
making good insulators for whatever has incensed you
so you don’t erupt on the wrong individuals later.
…if you’ve made another mistake.
They’ll find a way to forgive any wrong
knowing, and being able to tell the difference
between life getting hard and who you really are.
…if you’re needing to finally be vulnerable.
They’ll fluff up the pillows in their heart
building a soft place for you to land
so that you will always have a safe space
to rest.
Fra Angelico, Annunciation, mural in the monks’ quarters, San Marco, Florence, Italy, ca. 1438–1447. Fresco.
Loggia
Simple, serene
befitting humble crèche
Hail, harmonious Earth Mother
Mary
The low rumble of voices
ebb and flow like waves
breaking over me. The words
on everyone’s tongue, familiar.
Competition banter, friendly
and warm, cuts over
rules explanations. Every person’s
outfit says something to the trained eye:
rainbow kilt, cosplay, beloved character
beaming from every direction.
Around every corner something
interesting. Would you like to learn?
Would you like to play? May I sell
you something that you hadn’t
imagined you needed?
And the whole while, the cavernous
space fills with all kinds,
all here to experience, enjoy
themselves, meet new people,
drop the mask they wear.
To feel safe. To live.
Some of the people I have loved
seemed to carry
an impossible abundance.
As though sunlight moved through them
at a higher concentration.
They laughed harder.
Showed up more.
Left footprints
in the snow and then ate it.
One careened off the side
of the road on Halloween night.
One left no note,
only a noose at sea.
One gunned down at lunchtime,
mistaken for someone else.
One we are still waiting
to understand.
And I find myself
unnerved by my own pulse.
Checking for it.
Finding it.
Unable to explain
why the current remains
when it seemed so much stronger
in them.
you don’t know me,
but tell me you feel it, too–
the hollowing out of what was hallowed,
marrow scooped from our bones.
Tell me that you refuse to swallow
the empty language they dangle like bait,
their squirming equivocations
and spinning distractions.
I’m speaking in code,
but tell me I’m not alone. I’m not alone, here.
I’m trying to say that you’re not alone.
Remember the respite of unity in game 5
and Aretmis II’s mission around the moon.
Laugh with me now at the irony
reflected in an algae bloom.
Tell me that I’m not crazy–
you’ve heard the same thousand alarms in your head,
and, yes, it’s already too late. Dust gathers
on judges’ robes swaying on hangers.
Stranger, when hot winds rip the banners
from our eviscerated institutions,
hold my hand. I’m trying to say I’ll hold yours, too.
And all I can do
is sketch their golden petals,
blow them to the sky.
*
A midnight carries them, even in day.
Who hears their cries?
Hearts pressed down by heavy flight,
until a sudden spark—
gold petals cutting the dark sky—
blooms from within.
Poem and digital art by Michele
non v’accorgete voi che noi siam vermi
The motor slapped the water like a drum,
and when the engine cut off,
the silence was bursting.
On a dead speedboat on the Chesapeake,
I was reading Ginzburg.
Nearly twenty,
old enough to want
to be seen becoming
someone who read books like this,
careful not to hide the cover.
Menocchio was in my mind,
and angels were in the curd.
Casu marzu is cheese
kept past itself on purpose,
maggots eating what is
meant for us to eat moving.
No one on the boat needed to hear this.
Someone laughed too loud.
The surgeon and his daughter
went over the side and swam for shore:
all that schooling, striking out
across open water.
The bait went on wriggling in the bucket.
God does not seem to want us pure,
or finished, or still,
but leans over the vat of us,
hungry for what softens there,
for what we feed in secret,
for minds crawling.
When we docked,
I lingered at the stern
and read again.
