I’m setting up camp in the belly of the beast

Prying its jaws open

Crawling down the esophagus

With no intention of leaving

Things could be worse

But things could also be far better

//

I want to meet my demise by my own hand

It’s much easier than allowing someone else

To lift my chin

Letting them wrap their hands around my throat

Praying that they don’t squeeze

You used to love reading my poetry.

Comparing it to the likes of Dickinson and Bishop,

fascinated by this ability to capture my darkest moments and relive them through prose.

Something tells me you would not be so eager to read my words now.

Because you see, old lover,

time has not been kind to your memory.

And should you ever come across this, and wonder if it is really you to whom I speak.

Well,

the fun is all in the mystery.

It’s not a question of carnal capabilities
      (though the out-of-practice spine does ache something fierce)
but more a matter of spiritual endurance.
There are so many words on the page to be spoken
in that methodical chanting of a hundred people praying together.

This is only my third time at one of these services,
      (not that I really know why I’m here)
and if anyone wants to think down on me because my butt is down,
they should consider more I’d be involved if just one person
would take time to ask where the hell I’ve been for the last two years.

As it is, I inhale incense while inspecting a cathedral that looks
so much different now that it’s not my weekly home.
I once heard there are over five hundred crowns hidden throughout
in decorations and architecture. I want to find them all.

My eyes brush over alcoves holding statues along the back wall.
One is of Mother Mary holding a playful infant Jesus;
the other is Joseph, patron saint of workers, travelers, and dreamers
                                                                    (among many other things)
and sudden tears threaten to gush forth like Jesus’s pierced side.

I need him now more than I ever have, both for the places I’ve gone
and the tantalizing journeys I perilously hope to embark on.
Maybe this is the reason I’m here. Some Heavenly voice found me
amongst life’s gale force winds and is beckoning me forward.

He’d be proud of me, even if I have to sit for a moment.
It takes a lot of care and nurturing to heal a troubled spirit
and I wonder if Joseph ever had to teach Jesus something similar.
Inspired, I get back on my knees.
         Let’s see if I can last through another page.

I.

We hide the pill in a small ball of mozzarella.

Nancy used to eat around the pill

and spit it out,

Angel swallows the entire thing in one gulp.

She is mad for cheese,

thus she is our people.

This morning,

I offered her

her daily cheese ball.

She took it gently from my hand

as always.

But soon thereafter

she was jumping at me playfully

and snapping at my fingers

as if I had more goodness

I was with withholding from her.

It gave me the kind of laugh

I need to start my day.

II.

A few weeks ago,

I did not

put the pill

firmly in the cheese.

Angel bit into the cheese

and the pill fell out.

Before I could reload

another piece of mozzarella,

she looked down at the pill,

sniffed it,

licked it up

and swallowed it.

She is the easiest dog I have ever loved.

My geraniums were tore 
all to hell and I suspected
a squirrel was to blame
his bastard paws parting
the soil to pocket a nut
                                                                                I do not mind battle, the excitement
                                                                                 carries one through

The next morning
the squirrel was laid out
just beyond the swiss chard
as if fainted dead away
unmarred, waiting for
someone to palpate his apron
soft and white and covered in flies –
                                                                            I ate but was not satisfied
                                                                            with nuts in their season

No one wanted to fool
with the dead squirrel
in the backyard except
the new world vultures
who were happy
to apply for the job

                                                                         Two kinds live in this garden
                                                                         The dead and us

Then another showed up
in the bare branches of the pink oak
and another and another
willing collectors of carrion
discussing meat disposal

                                                                        Battles are won by slaughter and maneuver,
                                                                        But when your enemies lay before you, rejoice

and me, tree eavesdropping

tips on how to be lighter—

let go my old bark.

Branch out to hold more

up.

Today i walk my gender graveyard 

sitting on the side bouncing in our chairs
to the band on the stage enjoying
watching the older folks dancing
(we are closer to being those older folks
then we care to admit)
trying to get you to dance
nobody is watching you I promise
nobody is going to come up to you
in kroger and say I saw you dancing
and you looked ridiculous
nobody here cares how you look

I wanted to feel dizzy again,
with the input of experiences leading to ambivalences in emotions I let in

I remember you,

I think

at least I try to remind myself after I drink

I’m not sunk yet, but I sink
admiring the one who drowns themself in ink
as I stare curiously without blinks

I spend so much time thinking about the right questions to ask,

you were here a short forever and gone so fast
memories from a flask, do you also, in bourbon bask?