Category: Uncategorized

I.
In Oropos, a lone warrior rode
On horseback in search of a place to rest.
He had been on a long and weary quest,
So, he pulled on the reins and his horse slowed.
Up in the trees, the afternoon sun showed
Two doves huddled together in their nest.
He stopped his horse, and thought it would be best
To reach into his pouches to unload.
He walked to the center of the woodland,
And kept watching the doves in their repose.
He found some shade and stopped, just as he planned—
As the doves took flight, he picked up a rose.
He ate berries from a bush with his hand,
And then prepared a spot where he might doze.

II.
Through the thick leaves, Cupid’s arrow did fly,
Dropping the strong warrior on his back.
And with no warning sign of the attack,
The wounded warrior let out a cry.
The very source of every lover’s sigh
Had now made his vision a world of black.
The arrow in his armor left a crack
Over his heart from the archer so sly.
The doves that were circling overhead
Softly landed near his fallen torso.
In the warrior’s current state of dread,
He yelled for help with his physical woe.
As more of his blood continued to shed,
He heard the distant screeching of a crow.

III.
Through the boughs, crept the goddess of healing,
Circling around the branches with ease.
She saw the warrior beyond the trees,
Then stopped in her place—carefully kneeling.
She watched him with a merciful feeling,
And slowly rose to her feet from her knees.
Hoping to cure him from pain and disease,
At the loose tree bark, she began peeling.
She walked with her golden hair a-flowing,
As her white tunic radiantly gleamed
And reflected into her eyes of green.
She looked down at the warrior, knowing
That his wounds were worse than what they first seemed—
Then, she sought out ways of washing him clean.

IV.
She pulled on the arrow with gentle care
To make sure that his pain was not increased.
It appeared to be more than man or beast
Could ever have endured—or even dare.
There was a wide crack in his armor where,
From his heart, the arrow was now released.
The warrior had been nearly deceased
When it was removed from him unaware.
The poisoned arrowed turned into a snake,
And slowly began crawling up her arm.
From forest plants, a poultice she did make
To free the warrior from deadly harm.
As he continued writhing from his ache,
A splash of water completed her charm.

V.
She assembled the best cure that she knew,
And its level of success was profound.
Now that all its components had been found,
The muddy poultice took on a dark hue.
Softly into the wooden bowl she blew,
And the serpent then fell upon the ground.
As the snake in the grass slithered around,
The two doves simultaneously flew.
Walking over to where his body laid,
She worked away to heal his wounds and scars.
As there was no sort of debt to be paid,
She left his side, along with her nectars.
As he rose to his feet, he hoped and prayed
That she would take her place amongst the stars.

God is a parasite within women. Leeching substance from each organ, displacing her loins.
Life knit through crimson waves, curdled by screams.
Dirt clings to babe and child. Both shiver. Both cry bitter tears.
The Divine is found in the soul of women. Sharing the burden of creation, they embody the ache of rebellion. Silently observing the hate given and received by children. Swords pierce, blood pools, unflinching eyes.
Neither may flee from death, they are forced to look upon it and contemplate their role.
If not for one, the other would not be.
Cradling potential, yearning for worship, gazing upon decay.
Crushed under the burden of expectation.
The Church offers a promise of absolution by water, accepting only a sacrifice of blood.
Chaos washes the darkness of ages, I see.
From Mary to Grandmother, all the way down to me.
The Church neglects the Divine Nature as it buries the pain of women through sunlight that blinds instead of warms.
The forgotten veil at the altar’s edge. Praying for the world, left in the dust of the cassock.

Death is a strange thing
It makes me feel like a little kid
Always asking when they’re coming home
Always looking at the places they’re supposed to be

Crying at unrelated things
The grief quietly ripping my heart out

I never realize in the moment
7 years later
I’ll start crying in a Costco
When I see a forklift
Thinking of that moment
The moment when I saw him carried out of the house
Brain dead but still breathing

The moment I saw my moms expression as she said my name
In a Walmart.
Always the same face each time
A mix of worry and anguish

The grief is loud at unexpected times
Like when I play my violin and think of her
every time I realize again and again that really happened
They all really died
But I only understand for a second
Like jamais vu
Telling me
We’ve been here
before
Again and again

Do we ever really learn
To process grief?

Will I ever stop gaslighting myself into
Thinking it’s ok?

Will I ever stop feeling like a sociopath
For not being able to cry?

Will I ever stop distracting myself like an immature man
Who can’t process a breakup?

Will I ever stop shoving it down
Until all I feel is the urge
To cry at anything

But

never

Know

Why

According to the Christmas story of scripture
God decided to inhabit an infant body
to be carried in a woman’s body
then in her arms
to live without bowel control
without strength to hold his head up
and to live in a society that was unsafe.
He did that for us so we wouldn’t
have to die because of our misdeeds.

He could have come as an elephant
able to walk at birth and nurtured by his herd
Humans might poach him
for his tusks. Would that do the work
of crucifixion?
Could we have learned
not to die of our sins from an elephant?

He could have come as a giant sequoia
stable and stately and able to withstand
hurricane force winds and live 500 years
of interconnectedness within the forest—
a clear example of patience,
of mutual support within a strong community
of hospitality to other living beings.
Perhaps they did.

The doctor said
I’m broken—
and suddenly
I see the broken that’s always been me.

It’s such a relief to finally understand
the misfires, the restless nights,
the ache I couldn’t name—
but also,
a kind of devastating wonder,
how did I live nearly forty years
without knowing?

I imagine the child I might’ve been—
supported, held, soothed—
instead of being told off, again and again,
as though everything inside me—
was wrong.

I don’t dwell here, really,
I don’t turn over these days
in a slow, sad ritual—
but there’s a small part of me
that still wonders.

Time is just a witness—
And patient, I observe.
Even if I flattened its curve,
walked it right to the start—
would I choose to unravel?

Would I trade my loves, my losses,
my failures, my triumphs—
all the messy, luminous chaos
that made me who I am?

No.
I realise I can’t risk erasing them.

So no, I’m not broken.
I’m just…
not whole, either.

In the dark, I search for your light
Wondering why, when I could have it right
If only once, we could ignite
A spark, a flame, a brand new sight

You kept me like a secret, safe and secure
I kept you like a hidden treasure, where only we endure
Through storms and through the sun, we held on tight
You kept me like a secret,
But I kept you like an oath.

From best friends to enemies,
We’re good till your dead to me
You said you’d never go, but here you stand
With a smile, you cut the rope, you understand
The pain you caused, it’s hard to forget

Thought we had forever,
but our forever was far too short
You took the key and locked the front door
No more laughter, no more light
Best friends to enemies, we were good till you turned on me

In the shadows of my room, I dream
Of you, like a ghost, I’m always near
Memories of your smile, so sweet
But now, just a memory, a broken beat

Echoes of unrequited dreams
In the silence of the night, they scream
Longing for what we could have been
But now, just a whisper, a lost scene

Fed my books to
Pissed children.
They said to
Halt my chariot,
Do my bidding,
Order a gathering, &
Recite a lament,
For my bitten forehead.

Hit a tree after I blew
Secrets in its hole.
Written on top of my
Joking blunt knuckles,
The changeless.
Such are the battles I see in the
War that’s coming.

I think a secret for my friend.
See her singing somewhere,
Picking out what she stashed
In her locker, just because she’s
Decided her skins burning, & her
Heart should explode now.

Heaven forbid any bloodied
Clouds are found
Where she’s headed. I wonder
If she thinks about me
Sharpening a blunt
Knife or two, after I hear she’s
Left me lonesome here
For battle.

Slide One
A photograph. A tube of lipstick. A napkin with a faded kiss, smudged and bruised like the one upon my lips.

Slide Two
A broken fingernail. A chunk of thinning hair, greasy and dead, unattended like the child in the back of a van as the mother collapses in the dairy aisle of Walmart. A matchbook with only one unbroken match remaining.

Slide Three
An unsmoked cigarette. A business card with a street address hastily scratched onto the back. A pill without any identifying features, the urge to swallow and determine its psychotropic level almost too difficult to resist.

Slide Four
A set of keys. A crumpled piece of paper with nothing on it but a series of numbers, not enough of them to make a call. A coffee stain where the page was torn.

Slide Five
A knife, rusty by the handle and blade dull, but still sharp enough to break skin. Blood. If this was a collection of evidence in a trial, this might be the murder weapon. They might be testing the blood to see who it belongs to, test the blade to see whose hand committed these atrocities. But there is no question.

The knife, the blood. The lipstick on the tissue, the lost piece of the manicure that cost me more than the shoes on my feet. The pill, its identification forgotten, sitting in the bottom of my purse as I contemplate whether to try it. The keys to my apartment.

One victim, all harmed by the same hand—dry and calloused, in desperate need of the near empty bottle of hand lotion sitting on the gritty counter of the bathroom sink. A series of phases in one person’s life, the blunt blade failing to sever the point where they connect. A cough of ash into porcelain as the last match – now torn from the stem – disappears down the drain.

One last look into the mirror, the crack almost unnoticeable under the level of grime, hiding the imperfections in my marred gaze. The door slams shut behind me as I step into the noisy bustle of the sleepless city to seek yet another means of destruction. There is no question.

Just remember: I was a boy when you left.
If you came to me now, you would find an old man.
If only Daedalus would lend me his wings of audacity,
wings to fly, to soar to you. I have, yes, been designing a flying machine.
To sweep through the Venetian air, cross the Giocondan ramparts– to see you.
Once, once more, Sweetness. Thought you could pack up your Smile, & leave me?
Yet– look there– it remains! With me! Blessing me! Cursing me– with hope: you will return.
Smiling. Ever smiling. Come ba-a-a-a-a-ck to me.
You were cruel, to leave. For I loved you with Everything. All my thoughts. All my Heart.
All my Hope. All my Soul. Each day I awaken, to your eyes. Your eyes welcome me. Your
face guides me. Your mouth teaches me.
So many new maps to navigate this new world– but for my world–
only one, true compass– your face. Your smile.
Your eyes, come to clasp hands with mime.
When I’d press my ear to you, the pounding of my heart would move in rhythm to yours.
Until you’d hear my heart– pounding– inside you.
Pressed so close. This close. Just like this. You kiss. This day.
So many days– seasons– years– We’d work hard. To en-capture your smile.
On this bit of canvas. We invented: new paints. New colors. New brushstrokes.
Layering on your smile. Alchemy became our sorcerer of wizardry. Our genie.
Serving us this primordial cry. This grimace. This Smile. Toil became our wine, our bread,
our sacrament. “Smile for me.” Am left– bereft. Am left –alone.
With just shreds of what you wore. To make you smile. For me. Forever.

Have painted your face in a blue-green landscape of blue and green, cool tones so they will
outlast the yellowing of time: This landscape of Barren cliffs and roaming waters–
You watched me paint one line outward. Just one, thin bridge where a man might cross.
—To escape from a visit to the Circean wonders of you.
No he can’t. No, I can’t. That face– you see it? Look close– designed by nature?
By God? By me? Or by you, my love– to lure me in?
To Mysterious loving & gradual embracing.
Always taking me in, always welcoming, forever loving, understanding–.
& Comforting. Always possessing with heart and soul, your body, those eyes!
And, that smile. Is it a smile? No one, no one, no one Knows.
Here– with me–I see all my life was– is– all my life IS you.
My life– all I am -the substance of my life– is, you. Where did you go?
To Venice? Or back to the Tuscany of your youth? Why leave? When you went through that
door– you took my life– my world. Now when I lift the window up, or pull the door open–
Only a shadow of you returns.
Through the window; the door: your shadow haunts everything.
I wander searching –imagining you might be– behind the mirror,
or in this pale pale capturing of you. I see you as if in the mirror, the one up there–
the one intended brings in more light, to flush out the darkness why can’t! it! Bring! In! You!
You are not yet dead to me. That, is my curse. I want you back. Till then?
-I live like a Copernicus: Waiting for a comet: hoping to be alive when you return.

So acute is this sharp parting—
an iceberg calves from my heart.

This cold mass does not flee—
it hoe-harrows a steeper scarp.

I am that holy man.
Drifting through the desert,
mud cracks rayed in all directions—
cutting my feet.

I am that anchorite.
Fed through a rusty grate
chained—
in my nesting cell.

In that high house in San Francisco he died:
So lone so soon so young.

Small bread knife parings sour water
all—
grind to ashes in my mouth.