Politics? Overly-gymed bros? Maybe Christians?
“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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