Slave moon heart egg...

Some places,

I'm held in the cuffs

of my image: it's either

“Same ol' Billy” or “Billy

trying to break free?”

At some point, people

decide they're done

getting to know

the real me.

So then I

shave my head. I

get a tat. Quit my job

and change my religion.

Just to keep my oxygen

on. And so people turn to

equivocating: “You're

just going through

a hard time.

You'll

find your

self again.” Myself.

Was also 3, and 13; then

people asked what my dreams

were, what I wanted to be. Then

I felt like a cradled egg, warm in a

nest, stretching out my walls, barely

contained, forthcoming.   At   some

point, people wrote  down  my   ever-

changing answer,   saying,    “We

need to call you 'doctor' or 'pilot',

'soldier' or—or hell, even

'janitor.' We could say

that with a sorry

brow,

and still love you.”

Love? Me? Wrap your

arms around this: I've kissed

more faces, made more mistakes,

missed more   passing    strangers,

felt more moments of alive than I

could ever catch anyone up on. People

will never see but the crescent moon

of me. Nor I of them: to know

is to never stop re-tracing the

figure; to love is to pause

and be one with that

glowing edge.

The sin of giving...

Woke up,

Couldn't move my

Neck. It's. Still a little stiff.           Well,

                                                     I rub Your back always.

                                             So I Wonder if you Will

                                        Rub my neck Today,

                              If  I can sit still

For that Kindness: 

giving's Been, in A way,

Its own kind of

Wall, and Blindness. 

For I've got So 

good–at–Pouring

That taking in

Feels strange,

And if I'm giving 

more than

You've asked

Of me...                                       well, 

                                                   then Me is Resisting change.

                                               And that Is 

                                           its own kind Of self-

                                     ishness. And

That is

It's own kind

Of Greed.

And that is 

its Own kind Of 

vine-clingy evil:

That I Have to 

lay claim to

Your need.

And if 

someone should

Challenge

                                    My ways

                                  Or my motives, I

                              Mortar

                         Them: “Look how

                  I bleed!”

(I feel my neck.   Stiff as 

Your back. We all 

bleed.)