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.