The Shadow

They told me
there is no dawn
without the night.

“Weight”

Where did this weight — 

solid rock
crushing my chest
into spine — 

come from?

“You know very well.
That fight? Fourth grade?
Wyoming?”

Yeah.
So maybe it's time
to build a house
with that old stone

and move.

“Lorca”

     Hey, bro!
     I did her!
     With sunglasses on!

     — Memorial Acclamation

Go do it, then,
whatever it is that you do —
sex someone, buy that ring — 
film it, even, make
a record of your elementary courage
and then social your accomplishment
to your kind.
After all, you have the keys — 
     (Secret gesture.
     Secret gesture.
     Secret gesture!)
— and I should want to be
just
like
you.

But, 
no.
If you’re going to do it, hijo,
choose a field where 
you will get caught
and shot
and then I’ll know you’re real.
Let your body stand erect 
as rifles are raised by priests and soldiers;
stand before their righteous hate, alone,
knowing you die for your desire.
Then I’ll follow.

In your childlike voice:  
“It was just a little fun!”
“Why do you have to be so serious?”

Mi pequeñito, you have a thousand ways 
to explain your survival — 
as his blood sings from Spain,
intones a truth known only to me:

Divinity is a dead body,
sinking and stinking,
unliked and unfriended,
shot by justice,
abhorred by Church,
buried nowhere but my heart.

     Cristo amó.
     Cristo murió.
     Cristo murió.

“Dolores Park, SF”

I should write something,
here from this perch above the city.

But what?

Walking up 14th,
I saw a guy shooting up
between his toes.
He'll be dead soon.

And then the perfect couple
modeling their perfect lululemon
exercising their perfect dogs — 

already dead.

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