That Is the Done of It
That is the done of it;
the moment I stop questioning
somebody else starts answering for me.
To go deep enough in the ocean
to be lifted off my feet, pulled,
to drift with the current, to be
forced to float, move different,
to shut my mouth, breathe different
to kick like my life depends on it—
to witness, feel without judgment,
to rearrange my structures, my ideas
and discard them, again and again,
to realize how much I want
to be alive, even as the tide
is taking me somewhere else—
to suddenly get how the obvious
thrives in the obvious, right now,
to have every cell, tuned in, aware,
ready, eager, knowing, going,
being my breath holds its life
until it can no more.
My divinity is no task;
it’s essential I get to it before what
somebody wants me to believe sinks me.
The New Lord’s Prayer (2026 GOP edition)
Oh, great white gringo father,
who doesn’t like brown people,
hallowed be your guns,
the technology that helps us
kill other cultures and steal
their territory. Our kingdom comes
from breaking every promise
so our kind can continue
to live in comfort. Give us
the power we need
to make sure no one
finds out about us,
and lead us out of our despair
by putting new worlds up for sale.
For thine is the rule of might worshipped,
now and forever. Ah, money.
Previously published by Three Rooms Press in Maintenant 20, and by Cold River Press in VOICES
A Ride of Understanding
I stand before you, reading aloud,
flesh and blood, that aspect of me you see,
alive in a blooming mind that imagines circles,
opens doors, wanders on, wanders off,
a surprised mind that struggles with the idea
that we each bear the maul of death,
that we each rip and crumble as easy as a leaf.
Glory glory, hallelujah, the news is meant to lose ya.
Glory glory, big blue flame, another shooter, more names.
Glory glory, goddamn, how is this allowed?
The crosses, the stars, the moon, the sun,
the pain of so many centuries,
symbols misunderstood, misused, abused, saluted
as being this and that, people turned into
things they’re not, like Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
or the preacher who forgets that forgiving folly
is a lot more real, more powerful, than anything
solemn, pious; anything locked-in, punishment-crazed.
Other people take me places I wouldn’t go on my own;
I need my ears, eyes and heart for that,
more than I need my mouth, or my mind,
or any of the stories that I like to repeat.
Other people take me on a ride of understanding,
like I’m on a roller coaster, I’m hanging on and letting go,
depending on what feels right; I beg for mercy,
I cry, I laugh, I scream, I hide and I feel who they are.
Glory glory, praise be, our voices, our love, given free.
Glory glory, here we are, hypnotized by a new scar.
Glory glory, cultural goo, every gun that kills kills me some, too.
Give Me Love
I am the fruit of my own soul, ripening
in a civilization fond of wastelands.
I will fall; I will bruise; I will still be dreaming.
