You can not love yourself
And apologize for who you are
True love stands up in the guts
Of wrong and right
Allure and repugnance
Flawed and flawless
Blessed and cursed
Love forces them, to not kiss and make-up,
But fuck each other…
His hands tell the tales of labour.
Of the strongest storms and the harshest weather.
Of droughts that stained the lands with his blood.
His skin so burned; a painting painted by the Sun.
Awaiting the showers,
praying in every season.
He is a farmer,
the gracious ‘Mother’ of our great nation.
Original Artwork by Claire Hervet entitled, Magic Rainbow
My first reaction is to run.
There is no fight. But I can fly.
For this, I am sorry.
You built boxing rings
out of test results. Bowed
gracefully before each match.
Showed your opponent no mercy –
but made sure each hit was clean.
Me? I took a box of matches
to the mats the morning I woke
to permanent emptiness. I made the hospital
dance in gasolined blue/orange flames against
the grayest November sky ever etched
from Eden’s rough draft.
Hey God – you fucking missing a blueprint?!
I took your trophies out of the case
& bet it all on forgiveness.
Almost doesn’t count.
Almost is so close to complete.
Almost – is fucked.
Like – you almost had it beat a third time.
Like – you almost found happiness.
Like you almost won.
Like you almost knew how much you were loved.
Like we almost made it clear.
Like you almost stood a chance.
Like it was almost alright.
Like I almost said goodbye.
Like I’ll almost see you tomorrow.
Like it almost doesn’t hurt.
Like you are almost still here.
I don’t know what hurts more.
The knife slicing my hips
Or the fact I won’t see you tomorrow.
We only had but hours to meet.
I don’t know why I feel like this.
I really thought I was okay.
I guess I still just don’t know
How to be sad.
I’m in pain all the time.
But it’s not a sharp pain
like the knife.
It’s a dull,
A pain you think will
Sometimes I question
Why I don’t just try a little harder
To move on.
But then I think to myself:
I’d rather be in pain everyday
Than feel nothing at all.
“The World ain’t fair, my child.”
A father to his discouraged girl.
That shattered the father’s heart into prickly pieces for he never imagined a day would come where he had to reveal the horrors of reality to his beloved girl when He first held her as a baby.
He wanted to protect her
He could no longer be her knight in shining armor against this unfair World.
A cricket follows
you into the house.
You do not
know this at first.
But the echoed chirping of trapped
desperation haunts its way
into your dreams.
Funny, on how a bad
night, your bed sheets become a blade.
Your sweat becomes the guillotine. And
your dreams become an awakening
into the afterlife.
You watch the way
Like an exoskeleton picking
out and rearranging each rib
bone with every rise of the chest.
In your sleep – you speak to me
in riddles. Like you can’t afford
tongues. Like the devil
has been cleansed from inside
you. Like you gave up
poison years ago.
Yet here we lie.
Dirtying things that do not deserve
stains. Carving our names
into the trunks of trees just to prove
physicality. Knocking over grave
markers in the cemetery like the
answer to every secret
is in the haunting,
not in the ghost.
Just when I thought he couldn’t go any lower, his vengeance out-dreamt me. And he got gutter… I don’t know why I was so surprised. It should have been obvious… The way he ate my pussy, made me think my insides were sugar roads leading to oil wells of eternal life – mines of gold. Who could stop digging?
Do not be afraid to come undone. All of your ancestors await you at your dawn. Even the ones who didn’t wish to be there. Each cell. Waiting for you to open. To fall. To become raw… So that you may feel. Supported. My love… You are so supported. Your undoing is your salvation. There’s a roof made of rain and sunshine. Floors of solid gold. The walls never strangle. Doors are never closed. Some remove their shoes at the threshold. But never mind them… You! You must come completely. Undone. Of you… They require more – a more clothed in nothing. Nothing. At all. Hang your fear on shoulders that tote wings. Lay your burdens in laps likened to crimson tides. Rest your bloodied soles on lashed and leathered backs that have mended themselves. Spread your aching body across the Atlantic. They have been waiting to make a bridge. Out of you. Come. And be made. Whole.