Okay, I get a little angry sometimes…

Politics? Overly-gymed bros? Maybe Christians?

---

• “Victory“
• “To Steve the Gymboy: A Comment“
• “Knock on the Door“

---

“Victory”

“Stand back, stand by”

I am about to know

I have loam and rock for a back
and blue-grey sky for a head

honor an orange sun yellow
and gaze purple into ink

rest in love
as I have done all these years,
wake to heartbeats
and sleep with all sighs.

Then 

when unripe Boys rape in dirt
and shoot dark;

masturbate dry pricks
blood-smear voided genitals

kill this body
gorge on dull meat
eat our kind
burn our memory;

then

my arms Earth and Sky
my companion-Sun
my love this man

envelop me
pierce this hell
carry me home.

⤒

---

“To Steve the GymBoy: A Comment”

Yes.
You are strong.
A young blade of grass
standing up so tall and beautiful,
wide against your slender brothers,
a green I have not seen
proud in my envious buggy gaze.

You battled the breeze
and eagerly withstood all the mist
nature could throw at you.
After such fury,
more sure of yourself,
bro,
you flashed tall among those like you,
proud once more,
cocky.

But look up, too, if you dare,
and see the tree
that held your ground together
no longer tall beyond all others
but uprooted, dead on its side.

Ask yourself then,
little wide blade of grass,

if survival is simply another way of saying
you haven’t seen anything yet.

⤒

---

“Knock on the Door”

They go to your door, two by two, 
just like it says in the Bible --
well-dressed, sometimes in
pressed white shirts,
sometimes, smart skirts and blouses
so that only message is heard,
not the person.

They want you to know,
as they stand at your door,
that they have found the way,
that they're there to help --
to share peace, maybe happiness, 
help in hard times, 
direction.

And they are sincere!
Tears of joy filter plain eyes,
uplifted toward Calvary Hill
and gentle pleading:

"Please, Sister,  walk with Jesus.
Please?
Let us  help you,
for our yoke is easy,
and our burden, shared."

So begins the temptation.
And you, and your lonely house,
and your charred heart
see in these women,
or those Elders,
an end to the deafening solitude,
the tyranny of your crazy voice.

Except:
down deep, buried in muscles you've forgotten
but haven't forgotten you,
down in your body's dark labyrinth,
a memory saves you.
Something your grandpa said
and your grandma nodded to:

"You can only let others carry you so far.
Then, you've got to walk."

And you see your cross behind you,
the empty house,
the bills your husband left you,
the ashes of life,

and you smile
because they are your ashes,
he was your husband,
no one else's,

yours.

And you say
as your world reaches for you:
"Thank you for showing me
what I carry --."

And though they don't see it
(the plank in the eye and all that),
they've actually spoken Jesus (and all that),
brought the dead back to life,
and showed a sinner the way.

They just don't get to 
claim
the
credit.

⤒

---

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