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.)

Inflation...

Why do I like an exercise ball?

Because something not still

Forces me to be still;

That's all—that's all.

When my hands are on the ground,

The ground remains unchanged—

No matter how much I

Tense, misalign, strain.

But the ball only rocks to rest or

Smoothly rolls until here's

The pressure of my forceful

Hands, taking hold:

Then it shakes and quivers, not like

A ball at all; like a gramophone

Bell, bearing waves out of

Me—my own (

Which is to say, off-centered, too stiff,

Undecided). The ball takes

Every back-forth of my

Soul; makes me ride it.

Nervous, I call it a joke; a toy.

But then I sit, bouncing for

rest, on its horizon: slowly

stopping, closing my eyes on—

Now I try to raise my feet;

The ball rolls out from under.

I lie on the floor, heels above

Me; the ball wanders.

I press my elbows on its top

And inch my toes back:

Arms wobble, my girdle

Tightens; the ball laughs.

My violence echoes down to nothing

In that green-rubber space, every

Time I'm pressed against

Its calm, calm face

With my tremoring muscles, my fear that

I'll fall (while out from its center springs

One silent mantra: “You know

What never topples? A ball.”)

The more you leave... (the more you get)

                    I met you at a gasoline station,

                   out in the splinter-and-dust nowhere.

                You were beautiful. I wanted to take you

with me, into that vapor-pearled back seat, out of here.

You made me think of that overalls-girl

in my sculpture class, and that sweet soccer player

with the hurt back, and that cookie-skinned artist

   with her eyes over-blacked...

    And all the versions of beauty I had never dared to

           ask “please come,” just put onto a list of views

                                  I'd watched passing in the exhaust,

                                                         back where I'm from.

                                                                           Beyond this, 

                                                                             I went to your list,

                                                         which I'm sure you carry, of every

                                               pretty human you have ever regretted

ducking; every bright face that might have been better than alone...

And out beyond that, a streaming, indefinite expanse

of every face you or I might see

      coming up ahead;

          every heart-fluttering, 

                          mutual glance.

             There would be no way to fit them all

              into this car, in this narrow time, 

               with you and me.

             There is only time here to touch in passing; to

                   absorb what we can and, beyond that, 

                        let things be.

“I'll take twenty of diesel—I forget which pump I'm at.” 

          she smiled (there were only two).

“I bet that joke gets old, huh?” 

“Only for the first month,” 

     she smiled again, 

      “then it gets new.”

Being two (song) ...

P-p-P-p-Please—NO!

J-j-Ju-j-Just—NO!

B-b-Bu-b-But—NO!

Sh-sh-Sh-sh-Sh—

                                  I do this for the common good:

                             I must assert my personhood;

                            if you say yes, I say yes too,

                         then I am just a mirror of you—NO!

P-p-P-p-Plea—NO!

J-j-Ju-j-Jus—NO!

B-b-Bu-b-Bu—NO!

Sh-sh-Sh-sh-Sh—

                          What you want is to give me

                            just option-A or option-B;

                               don't want bloody wars, don't want dull peace,

                                  don't want you saying, “Oh, calm down, please!”—NO!

P-p-P-p-Pl—NO!

J-j-J-j-Ju—NO!

B-b-B-b-Bu—NO!

Sh-sh-Sh-sh-Sh—NO!

“This, or this, or this?” 

                                       NO!

“That or that or that?”  

                                       NO!

“Which, oh which, oh which?” 

                                      NO!

“WHAT oh What oh What?!”  

                                        NO!!!

The honest irony (re-write) ...

{credits: "When the Leather is a Whip" by Martin Espada; Online flirter donated by Stephanie}

I was hard, once. So the best I could love

was hard. People felt tweaked when they hugged me.

I was loud and unrelenting, so my love was ugly.

She was a torn soul. So her affection was

sometimes terrible: “I hate you!” “No I love you! Intensely!”

Everything she felt, she spread immensely.

They were always drunk. So they got

more drunk together. He died at 51 in a car crash.

She sold all his things, and drank the cash.

*

When I was 12, I looked at this picture

Every night, of a woman in her pale underwear.

Touched myself, felt lightning there.

You might have asked me at 24, was that love?

And I'd have laughed you a “No-hh!!” But then again,

at 24, I was a pompous prick; I wouldn't have dated me then.

For my own, my ex's, my uncle's ghost's sake—

for all that I want to embrace and adore—I think I've decided to understand:

my love is only as good as I am.

My love is as good

as I am.