your heart in your hands

                “For the want of a nail the shoe was lost,
                For the want of a shoe the horse was lost,
                For the want of a horse the rider was lost,
                For the want of a rider the battle was lost,
                For the want of a battle the kingdom was lost,
                And all for the want of a horseshoe-nail.”

                                        (a proverb of unknown origin
                                        retold by Benjamin Franklin
                                        in his Poor Richard’s Almanack)

Not only did nobody know
there was a conservative in the room
when they started hating on Trump,
but it was also his first time reading poetry 
at an open mic. But instead of finding
a community to share his passion with,
he left without ever saying hello.

He has habit of collecting
censuring labels
based on his electoral habits.
    A racist for not voting Obama in 2008
    the week before he first moved out
    of his cradle-Catholic home.
        A bigot for choosing Romney in 2012,
        though he has no memory of that election
        being in the thick of a divorce.
    A sexist for refusing Hillary in 2016
    the only potential candidate
    he couldn’t put above Trump.
So what do you think
happened next?

He longs, more days than not,
to go back to turning twenty
without all the wedding plans.
He wants to drink a beer
before he’s twenty-four.
Maybe a visit to a strip club–
he’s been sitting on a free-admission ticket
slotted into his wallet years ago.
He wishes he’d read at more open mics.

And it seems like the world never slows down
while he’s still playing catch-up
with new buzzwords created every week
like performance punishment.
Fresh headlines already being dissected
before he has an inkling of awareness,
adding to the infinity of other issues
he’s desperate to stay informed on
but he’s just
                         so

                                 damn

                                              tired.

He’s sorry
but he’s not thinking about Gaza
or borders or trans rights
when he’s crying himself to sleep
alone.

Fortunately, I can tell you that by the end
he is going to get there,
   –to that place you’ve wanted him to be
just maybe not as fast as you would like
   –this place he could have already been.

But I believe his story needs a brief spotlight
because it’s just one
in millions of unique journeys
sometimes finding home,
sometimes getting hopelessly lost.

People
    with honest concerns,
    maybe a single understandable question
    over some hot-button issue
    who subsequently got lambasted.

People 
    who had no control of their starting points
    put on the defensive their whole life
    because they’re still learning;
    trying to be better than progenitors.

People
    neither without personal responsibility
    nor a drive to be the best versions of themselves
    amidst any assortment of values or echoes
    that have formed them.

We are the winnable few,
a bloc that, I’d like to think,
could swing electoral tides
if we’re offered a helping hand
every so often.
Maybe a taste of compassion
for when the going gets hard.

you see me naked

without skin

down to the rib

you know me

if I could thread

your hand in mine

sewing the finger

tips together

I’d find the needle

among the hay

I’d find the thread

to make you stay

The port wine goes down easy.
Accompanied by cheesecake
smothered in currants.
A bundle of currants.
I devour
each one slowly,
deliberately.
Saunter the berries
over my tongue.
Meander them
over my teeth.

This cluster so sweet.

I want you to graffiti my body
with these garden-red currants.
Spell out the lyrics to love songs
you have yet to write.
Puzzle a poem
onto my breasts
with these juice-heavy currants.
Let them drizzle 
into tomorrow.
Make of me
a vineyard
for your mouth.

the last time you touched them gets no closer

i remember the way the sun hit the halls as i lay there listening
to my dad cry when his first sister died
two brothers later and still nine to go–
we’re Catholics i guess i’m tired of explaing how god love contraception no more
than he loves a life  bereft of bereaving

the grieving they say is a measure of your love
how rare is a word that lets you believe that makes it worth it

Whatever you don’t want to share, you lose. 

Don’t wanna move.
I’m in the groove.
Don’t want to rise…
—Flatline—
Ugh, my laptop died.
Doh, I forgot the charger at home.
Well, then, let me use my phone.
18%?
Geez, it needs life support, 100%!
Oh, no, I don’t have much time!
I’ve gotta meet this deadline.
It’s been one of those days.
I don’t know whether I’m coming or going the opposite way.
But, anyway…
How is technology so smart,
But it can’t stay alive?

from across the water I am looking

at the candlelight waxing and waning

in October moonlight / it is calling me

again / in all my slashes and bloodstroke

/ could I come home
/ could I come home
/ could

i look from across the treeline

and call this place home again

To get the tomato plant to bear fruit,
they say to yank it a little, shake it up.
It takes a balanced measure of feeding

plus stress to blossom.   Now inundated
with rain, the plants and weeds shoot up
taller and taller, but many lack flower buds.   

Those that open, burn in the occasional glaring
sunlight.  I try to crawl my way through
the profanity of bombings, assassinations,

arrests and deportations, defunding
of everything that matters.  Absurdity
from our leader, incoherence mirrored

in my weekly visits to assisted living. 
How to write through this level of desolation?
Someone tug at me a little.  Just a little.