the fit of melancholy (20200407)

the poor are still poor
the dying still die

those obsessed with power
wrap themselves in disaster
like moths in cocoons
only to emerge stinking of
their own vile shit

weaponize everything
the weapons
the disease
the cure

are time travelers
come back to honor
their ancestors

NaPoWriMo Day 16

mockingbird you

put your
whole self in

smart ass
smart as
take your pick

repeat everything i say
adds a few phrases in my voice
–stop hitting yourself
it offers and
–i know you (are) but what am i

oil slick wings
a song of sanded butter
you grate on my nerves, blackbird
you vex me, jackson–you vex me

i will feed you bits of me
wrapped in freshly baked bread
still steaming from the oven
from my furnace-hot heart
you will shut that beak for good
when you have–

take, eat; this is my body

–been poisoned

what it’s
all about

Poem 20150603

let the hands move

they move

they move on

they move of their own accord

a truth in their movement
a truth in how
they slide
the hands slide
the hands pause
and trace shapes
and trace curves

let them trace
let them draw
let them follow
and grasp
and hold

each hand
five fingers true
and a truth in the muscles
and in the tendons
and in the bones
and in the marrow of the bones
and in the anima that moves them