Poem-A-Day #312 : Pyrite

Pyrite

Let the record show that we were at least genuine - in some things - that the field of ourselves was sewn with attempts towards beauty

at times it was fallow and covered in snow - and in those times the seeds could relax - they could - wheat rests in ice to grow for early summer - can this not also be true of ourselves

I know the arguments for and against - the sighting of the hawk fighting the raven over the rabbit - there is a wheel that we are tied to

it perpetually takes us under water - rocks us against the spokes - winnows us - separates bone from meat

Field metaphors are about growth and death and cycles - they crop up like weeds in the words of great and lesser poets - they are reserves of water sitting beneath the earth - waiting like oil to be drilled from their ancient tombs

what a beautiful nostalgia - the wide-brimmed farmer aloft his perpetually churning machine - no sign of drought or of hail or early frost here

The lie in that America is obvious to any reader of any book on any subject - even not farming - but the hope in the bread belt - the grains of it a sort of pebble across the water of culture - that is nice to look at to hold to the light and to see ourselves in

does that negate ourselves - make the want of truthiness to be invalid - it at least makes our claims pyrite though no less amazing in their reality

Poem-A-Day #292 : Refusal

Refusal

I hear that you don't want the flag to burn
that you believe we are divided
and our hands are hurting for lack of holding

Across the table I see your eyes
they are reflecting and moving like fish in a bowl
'darting' is a word that one would use to describe them

I must confess that I am tired of kumbaya
and have little interest in comforting anyone
this is perhaps a broken part of my soul

Your words bounce around the white space
they say things like 'politics is boring' and
'we must move beyond' and 'color isn't real'

I want to throw water in your face
slam your head into the wall until everything cracks
I want there to be blood when I am done

There is the sound of winter from the doorway
a sort of whisper death come to sit at the table

The flag will burn and your hands will grow cold
is what it seems to be saying

Again
this could be a fracture in myself

The idea that nothing is politics is a refusal
a turn from the world from ourselves

Politics is just a fancy word for feelings
which you seem deeply concerned with

Poem-A-Day #80 : Haiku

Haiku

There are days when I
want to pull inside myself -
Be turtle -     Be stone

Poem-A-Day #53 : Thoughts on the Death of Prince

Thoughts on the Death of Prince

Every time someone famous dies you post that picture of Kanye West
where the reporter is disappointed to find him still alive -

And I get it

                    But I don't really

Tonight at the bar this guy made a joke about Queen Elizabeth's birthday
and why did Prince have to die when this 90 year old white woman is still going

And I mean

                    Sure - Imperialism sucks - but really -

I think about the first time I became aware of sexuality - watching
this man in butt-less pants sing about getting off on MTV

And the moment - expanded

                    And being a boy became less of a box

I know he became homophobic later in life - I know he moved into
a strange brew of anti-sex and religion that was definitely a contradiction
with his music -

And I get all of that

                    But I don't really

Because I want to say that people die - that they do - that they go
and we have no control and if anything threaded from Lovesexy to HitNRun

                    It was that we don't live forever

That we should - just possibly - enjoy these bodies while we have them