Vultures

Vultures

It’s something extra awful

When you can’t even figure out

Who’s lying to you anymore.

And you can’t even catch

A break to straighten out

Your own head.

They’ll use you up until

There’s nothing left to squeeze,

And then pick at the carcass

Until all that is left

Is your bones.

And then, then

They will find some use

For those too.

I once read that the poor class

Has consistently throughout history

Liked to drink and fuck

For recreation.  Squandering

Their pennies for cheap thrills

And keeping themselves down.

We drink to numb the pain

You have pushed on our bodies.

We drink because it is sometimes

The only way we can wake up

In the morning

And bring ourselves to serve you

Once more.

Smoke your cigars and poke and prod

And make fun of us all you’d like.

There’s no pride left to hurt anyway.

Nothing behind our eyes but sadness.

And for fucking?

Well, even us poor need to have fun once in a while…

I Wet the Bed, Like Federico de la Fe

I Wet the Bed, Like Federico de la Fe

Insomnia-riddled night

Torn and tattered soul

Like old negligee

No peace in my mind

No piece in my bed

Nothing in the moon

Or night sky

It’s during these sleepless spells

I feel most alone

Which for a recluse

May sound appealing

But it is also

During these dreamless nights

That I find myself faced

With the only instance

I am not ok

With being without

In fact I’m something of

A child clinging

To his blanket for

Sweet life

Terrified of shadows

Monsters under the carpet

And Michael Myers

Hiding in the closet

How I’d kill for

Long fingernails to write love notes

And draw pineapples

On my back

A cool hand to run

Over my body and

Quiet the fireworks

Bursting in my brain

How I hate myself

For knowing they’d

All be gone in the mourning

With these thoughts.

The Beautiful Flower

The Beautiful Flower

Stretched skin in blood red

And lush pink.

Gorgeous lips just

Torn apart

By burgeoning life.

Sacred home

And alter,

Eternal source of

Warmth.

The loving nurture

Beyond the capacity of a man.

The slick salty lick.

The long stroke

Of worship.

For a puzzling

Conundrum, yielding

Fruitful rewards.

Beauty is perception,

Lacking definition.

Lacking any finite understanding

Outside one’s own.

Though there’s no denying the

Beauty of this:

They say it’s your most

Precious gift;

I say, if anything

It is only proof of

God, and

Her kindness.

For Meena Alexander

For Meena Alexander

I want to own your mouth

And steal your tongue;

To control the words

That lick your wounds.

It’s my language,

It’s yours.

Yours.

We’ll try to possess

It, but we cannot.

I want your mouth on mine

And to dance and burn

In eternal sunshine.

You grasp for straws

All you’d please.

You’ll gasp for me.

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday

The church is dead now.

Dead to me, anyway.

The final nail through my hand:

The stale palm cross in my

Passenger-side visor.

Though I still sing Hosanna

In the highest.

And I still praise and worship;

And I bow my head,

While on my knees.

Regardless, I’m helpless to lament:

Why hast though abandoned me?

Delila

Delila

Your body, baby

is sweet sex and all of its possibilities.

The resonating strum

at the forefront of my mind

throughout each and every day.

You echo behind

all of my thoughts

and are central

to all of my dreams.

That body,

that body, baby, and your neck.

Your neck, sweet darling,

I long to caress that neck;

to demonstrate this vast range of

emotions only you can make me

show.

You bring it out, love, you

make me

true.

My weapon, my muse—

            for this war!

And all I feel

is eternal indebtedness and gratitude.

These fingers are not for foreplay.

They’re for the whole damn show.

And they will make you moan,

Baby.

They will make you moan.

Prynne

Prynne,

I always tease you

When you think that

Every poem is about you.

Now I fear you may feel

As though none of them

Are.

You will always be my

Greatest muse;

You were my rebirth,

My awakening.

You wrote me like Chopin herself.

I am forever

Indebted and grateful

A billion times over.

Yours

The Politics of Peace

The Politics of Peace

I.

You want me to write a politically active poem,

Don’t you?

They’re clamoring for it,

Joe.

I can’t concern myself with politics,

I’m sorry.

I can’t control or change a goddamn thing.

Words were never strong enough.

No one’s.  Ever.  Period.

They killed every man

Who ever told us how

We could live it right—

To respect and care and protect

Each other.

Even after all this time, having come all this way,

We still cannot recognize it.

We could feel and permeate only warm energy;

But we can’t handle it?  We can’t bear the thought?

The Testaments of Love are tarnished

And we kill in holy names.

Forget the thought of peace then—

There’s no need for another dead preacher.

II.

I often wonder about

The man at the control station

Dropping bombs on children

Thousands of miles away.

Collateral damage,

I’m sure his supervisors say.

He was just following orders,

So here’s a comforting pat on the back:

I know of another group of

Misinformed soldiers

Still unforgiven

For theirs.

And right now, at this very moment,

In Africa or the Middle East

A woman is having her

Clitoris ripped from her body.

Tiny fingers stitch your sneakers

And piece together components of this iPhone.

The ocean is filled with plastic soup

Evaporating into our air

And killing our sea life—

Our solution to pollution was dilution,

So what is our solution now?

But never feel guilty for your privilege,

Even as we get fat and others starve.

Understand that your own perceived reality

Reigns supreme over our collective one;

So be grateful that this is yours and not another’s.

Thank God for good fortune

And ponder how he could possibly

Exist in the midst of all of this.

III.

Now to touch upon God

Once more.

How could I question his

Presence here, but claim

Her existence in another?

The same way I can tell you

I will not write a political poem,

But then do so immediately after,

In part two:

Because I want to

And nothing about me makes sense.

You call yourself God sometimes

Don’t you?

Yes, and even before I realized the

Power of authorship.

But shouldn’t you love your God?

Shouldn’t you love your country?

You should love yourself first.

You should love your neighbor.

That is how you love your God.

Discourse (for Dissinger)

Discourse

And so you asked:

What if your country attacks you?

Then attack your country.

Attack whomever.

Attack whatever.

Attack the Institution.

Attack the Man.

Fight City Hall

And kick the Mayor right in the nuts.

Attack Art.

Attack the fucking Cosmos.

Attack the Stars

Like the Paparazzi.

Attack the Poor.

Attack the Coloreds.

Attack us—the Hegemony.

Attack something

For Christ’s sake.

Just be ready to

Reap the repercussions.

W.H.

W.H.

She said the world would have suffered

The loss of some of the greatest poetry ever written,

If she had simply given into his desire.

Auden knew, as I do to

The words will change the world at large

Far less than her presence would to his own perception.

We’d trade them all, my friend and I—just for her attention.

Who's to Blame?

Who’s to Blame?

I can’t stop writing.

It’s all your fault.

The pen explodes.

Ink splatters

The blue-lined page.

It’s all your fault.

This beautiful mess,

Brought forth from

You, you beautiful mess.

It’s all your fault.

Yours…

And a little bit

Mine.