struggling

struggling
against nothing
against no one
against myself
against the great Birth
the moment of Introduction
the bow-inducing audience
applause like blood
rushing
a river of blood
through one ear
and out the other

take your bow
you are absent
empty hands
clapping, no sound
finally accorded
your Dispensation

w/ the therapist

I am lethargic and bored
we speak for nearly an hour
I am evasive; she is tenacious

when a moment of clarity arises
I notice the tissue in the box on the vent
waving like a flag

don't judge

don't judge me
by my actions
stone me in this
world of appearances
the sitcoms, hidden
in the march of the postman
by any weather, endeavor
the purple coifs
under hijabs, regret
that we never did begin
to excavate
our acne'd, alabaster
faces for signs
of quiet soliloquy
tones of a primordial
sludge of sacred
reverberation
speaking volumes
to legumes
and moss, and other
forest dwelling
peoples

Kali Ate the New Age

some of them were anticipating
the coming of the Age of Aquarius
with peace signs and tie dyes
acid trips, Hendrix
an unfolding human consciousness

I was the product of two ships
that gasped in the night
in a car or at a concert
at a friend's apartment
a brief allotment of time
for free love

I tracked down my mother's brother when I was 21
detective work turned up his yearbook
when my letter arrived. my aunt implored him to call his sister
let her know that her lunatic bastard child
had found his way home

but Kali ate the New Age
aglow with fierce compassion
she knew we'd need more
than salvation in some quick fix --
crystals, hot yoga, chakra balancing
the archetypal mother's arms

the turning of our Collective Heart
would require something closer to the bone --
pestilence, despair, outrage
the death maw of electronic newspaper in lap
joined hands, an oasis of tears, knit pussy caps

counter-survival

untold stories
untasted experiences
for the starving in us

we marvel
at our good fortune

fulfillment
was never
about satisfaction
but hunger
under-indulgence
eyes forever turned
toward want
and its innumerable uses

one step at a time

follow the somewhat thread
into the microscopic house
the tongue of reality flame
licks your hand
subtle dog

morose mind
under construction
its tender malfunction
drunk on the process
slogging toward conscious

Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own

I had been wanting to play it
on my guitar at his funeral
planning it out in my head
at least 5 years before his death

I didn't play it, never learned it

"a house doesn't make a home...
don't leave me here alone..."
when the lines come up tonight
during Bono's elegy to his father
I bawl, like I haven't in the past four months
5 seconds that bring tears, ugly snorting
hand to wipe face

I pick up the book on grieving
I bought at the library booksale
for one dollar
read about telling our stories
again and again and again if need be
telling them until we don't need to anymore

I sit down, write this poem