Coping with ...

                         What to 

        do with                a chest full 

of butterflies?

First:                                      breathe in, 

so that they                                 don't die.

Then                                            test gently—       

ever so                                        gently—for

A shadow                            of flutters 

behind her             gray eyes.

   If not:                stretch your           jaw 

  until                      light warms        their 

      restless                         backs,

             and breathe,                  

               breathe out             slowly, 

              as they                 make 

         an escape.

     But        close your mouth 

     soon,     so to keep in the 

      slowest.

           Leave it       flexing 

                                  its 

                       wings 

                there...

                 just 

                    in 

                       case.

Capital offense ...

Murder me with “extra” cheese

Shackled in double plastic,

                                                        Blind me with three-sixty screens

                                            Blinking “FREE!” 

                                                                  “TODAY!” 

                                                                         “FANTASTIC!”

Deafen me with mounted speakers

Cannon-blasting a concession hall,

                                                          Numb my thumbs 

                                                                with console games

                                                                  and pay-pads 

                                                        wall-to-wall.

Slice me through with radio-waves

And cook my brain on a phone;

      Choke my air with 

        wi-fi hot-spots,

        Billboards, 

          crowd lines, 

                   drones;

                                        Melt my teeth with bleach-white

                                                                                    Flour, 

                                                                              sugar, 

                                                                citric acid,

                                                   Salted 

                                    syrups, 

                powdered 

    spirits:

Saturate me passive.

Fill my mouth with taglines

And empty my bowels with quips,

Plunge my veins with panic, fervor:

                                                             “SALE!” 

                                                      “APOCALYPSE!”

              Pour                 me 

                    wide-eyed 

              into          engines.

              Feed                me 

                      smiling 

              through machines.

              Shape me, 

                      use me, 

                           end me—

              Just             don't 

              ask                me 

              what   it   means.

Recovery ...

There is wood in these walls—

                     under plaster and paint.

    Who chose gray for the waiting room?

                                              I suppose, yeah—

                                           it's the color of wait.

                             There are stones under this floor—

                               past cement, wires: rock-bottom.

                          In that way, like a bug flying against

                                                        the window pane—

                                                 thump, drop: forgotten.

                                             Behind every surface—

                                          gray, sterile, still—

something is growing, or breathing, or moving:

                                  locked in, but twisting

                           with its own quiet will.

        They extracted all my teeth—

   in a bright, buzzing theater—

while father (back in a gray room) told them,

“He doesn't do meth...

he just really likes soda,” 

but I neither

Know nor care 

about saving face—

“Yes, yes” the doctor is nodding

while her eyes roll back 

over a thousand parents' lies:

                                     she knows

                             why I've been rotting.

                And the four denture anchors, she says—

                                        as she drills them in my jaw—

                                   will give my bones work to do,

                                                        so they won't shrink.

                                      Eyes at me: “That's a living law:

                            Use it or lose it.” I lost my soul for a bit—

                                                              I put it on a shelf,

                                        burning nights away on 'soda.' 

                           But I have bone down in these gums,

                                                      still clacking 

                        with their “feed-me” drive—

even behind white denture walls. 

                    I have to 

            remind 

       myself.

The nameless now (like this) ...

“Give me your hand,”

she said;                                                         I thought

she was a palm reader.                         But

no, she'd fallen into a stale

Summer job.                   Still wearing

a plastic name-tag        from

that   movie theater.

“Your hand,”          she held out

her own,                 waiting firmly.

So I added my                palm to her

finger curves.                    Then she spun

away,                           taking back

her face          (but keeping

my hand in hers).

So I found myself

with that one                            arm kidnapped,

growing warm                       on her

waist.                          “And the other one,” 

she said,             reaching over

her shoulder,         expectantly

returning half                  her face.

So I gave up my                last palm;

she placed it on                  her collar,

drew it down                          along

her sternum, to rest     on her ribs.

At this point,         I spoke up:

“What's your name?”

She whispered                                   “This,”

her short-ribs humming:                       “I watch

couples,           day on day,               sitting down

in the same felt-walled                   abyss,

staring toward           projector lights.

But not really, right?                                They

all go in like this:                              for this.

Just for this.” An hour like them, we stayed.

Finally, I broke the lock,               “I have to

go. But                             what's your name?”

“Nope,”                                               she held.

“First?”                                                   “No.” 

“Middle?”                     “...Just,” she breathed.

“Your last name, then. It's—?”          

                                                                “This.”

I laughed, 

                                                but she didn't.

Serene.

                                   Still I hear her:

“Nope. 

         No.

                           Just this.”

Trinity (love, accept, understand) ...

                                                Here's a test, 

if you're up tonight

        wondering if your relationship 

             is really “working right.”

            If not, am I to blame, 

                      or are they?

                                                  That won't find you 

                             anything useful, either way.

Blame, shame, and insults scream

               “I desire! I was planning on …

                     when I look at you,

                          I dream…”

                                                          But in those self-sorry 

                heckling-howls, we hide         

                                     the pink-juicy needs that—

                     fuckin'—everyone holds inside.

Those vitamins that we all want. Right? 

         Place those in your hand.

                     Look there:

        "Do I love, accept, and understand?"                          Look out—

                                      "Do I feel loved, accepted, understood?"

                        This life is not about “Working Right.”

                               It's about feeling 

    (and becoming) Good.

                * * *

                            Love! Is that selfless, aching part

                                       that we call “caring” “attaching”

                                                 “Your heart? moves my heart.”

                                                                You'll bump into love:
                                   someone, sometimes,  forgets themselves … 

                                         lifting your boxes, your sullen cheeks—

                                                               just to keep you well.

                               This is so basic: a desire to simply see 

                                                you flower into what

                                   you were meant to be.

Acceptance! Is that deep-eyed, calming trust 

                               that you—as you are—are enough;

                                                                that if I turn to dust,

                                                             you will carry on, being

                                                     good and worth it in this place.

                We call that “tenderness,” “respect,” “a safe embrace,”

                                 When someone leaves you the whole field 

                                                 to fall, learn, stand up, grow!

                    Patient as you rise from the ground; eager

                    to hear what you've come to know.

     Understanding! Comes from dipping—again and again—

                      into your universe: “It's always different from mine! 

                                                          So what did you feel, just then?”

                                               You'll notice this when someone doesn't 

                                                                                catch your meaning,

                                                                 And instead of just shrugging

                                        “I'm apart from your act / thought / feeling,”

              they inch nearer by your side (without scales for judging)
                                        just to know: a piece of you, like me,

                                                     too full to ever fully see. 

         We call this “presence,” “empathy,” “home.”

                             * * *

                      So here's a test,

                         if you're up tonight,

                wondering if your relationships 

                   are really “working right.”

Look in your own goddam hand:

                     “Do I love, accept, and understand?”

                There is No One to hate, or reject, 

   or dismiss. Now touch your own lips—

                                     be the first

                            one you kiss.

Big Front Door (song)...

Trucks on the road, loaded with beams

Two houses high.

Kids always laugh

When power rolls by.

Parents, they sigh, woken by noise.

They're workers by day:
Victims, accomplices—

One and the same.

I remember

dreaming my life

was up to me; they said “A-B-C –

which spot would you

like to fill in?”

Back then I was blind, so I got in line.

But now I see …

*

I am love, I am peace, I am heart and will.

And I work with my friends, and we fuel your hill.

You have bought this machine, but we pull its oar.

And we've rowed; now we'll climb to your big front door.

You make the parts, I write the code,

and others take calls.

Stuck in our place,

kept blind to the whole.

Carrying pictures, cats dogs and families,

cut-outs of dreams:

to cool my veins,

and remind me to breathe.

I can feel that

choir of young eyes

begging me to reassure.

But I can't say “It's

okay,” to my

own tired face, into the glass

behind this door …

*

I was born shining-eyed, then you bought my time – 

even health, even sleep – are these hands not mine?

And you'll push and you'll drive 'til I taste that floor.

Still I'll come, and I'll stand at your big front door.

You call down the police; now they scare my son.

Then you laze and you thieve, and you call me one.

You draw lines with your words, and you beg for war.

Still we'll come, open armed, to your big front door.

I remember

when “One nation”

was a pledge I knew. We'd shout it, too:

All of us

together, calling

“Indivisible.” Our lungs were full.

We made it true … 

*

You can see we're in pain; you shout, “Earn your way.”

So we step on your path; you shout, “Private! Stay!”

Press me back, push me hard, 'til I'm an open sore.

Still I'll come, just to bleed at your big front door.

Simple truths, Fair and Right, you divide Blue-Red.

Equal hearts, you have race- knowledge- sex- Graded.

Then I call to the sky—and you curse my Lord?

So I'll come, and I'll sing through your big front door.

Yes, we'll come, and we'll sing, through your big front door.