as go the birds

wrote this odd little poem in iowa and it keeps tripping through my mind. thought i’d share it:

so many there’s birds
float flying past my
seventh story window
in the grey of dead winter, in iowa,
(my first such grey)
delectable alone, and yet
with, in relation to,
others they go

all bird bones snap
wide open, of hollow mouths,
full brim of sweet kisses,
distraught to be so light
against the gale
above the shining snowish patch
knowing a nothing
of their own gloriousness

some do fly inward
on meta magnificent maps
full of arteries and escapes
thick claws dragging memories
from the beginning so long time
when we were still only human,
but desperate little liars so
no one could decipher
inside of the longing

but moxie is a fate,
tomorrow a mythical bent
strumming of all whispers,
and deception, and stupid
hectic fortune.
to catch then this wind
updrafting without mercy
is the joy i can afford

is the good life we can claim.

– mar 8, 2014

a poem on purpose

(written by hand on plane, transcribed with a cacophony of frog songs all around me)

i am often now looking into beauty
wherever i am
seeing a falling down around me of cages, perhaps
some bar, some steel, something thought to hold me
or i thought it up to hold myself
through the awakening

when it is a chaos inside it helps to say
i am this
(tired) {known}
and not that
(desired) {unknown}

but in all the space i found a chaos without
a world, a familiar
an unreasonable joy
an unrealistic life
and i have decided to live it

because i don’t remember anymore when the heartbreak started
that emptiness larger than any single slight or withholding or person
but i do know this world will keep it burning and aching
twisting you and i away from any purpose
filling up the sight

i could, and i have, but
i don’t think i was put here to see the world and weep

i have full hands,
my work is to create more beauty
tho…there is enough and so much
so then, to show it, to let it be, and let it out
to conduit that love which is also always present
in this same plane, in this same little world
to notice the ways it is good to be of my species
on my planet
in this age
to remember how to love
all through these forgetting times

a complex movement

over and over again
it becomes known
the peace we seek
is seeking us
the joy a full bud
awaiting our attention
justice in our hands
longing to be practiced
the whole world
learning
from within

this thrilling mote in the universe
laboratory
labyrinth

internalize demands
you are the one
you are waiting for
externalize love
bind together us into
a greater self
a complex movement
a generative abundance
an embodied evolution

learn to be here
critique is a seductress
her door is always open
so what if you get some
we are going further
past reform, to wonder
this requires comprehension
that cannot fit in words

out beyond our children
beyond the end of time
there is a ceaseless cycle
a fractal of sublime
and we come to create it
to soil our hands and faces
loving loving and loving
ourselves, and all our places

– 10/25/12, detroit

still of it

i am still of it
this world
full of sorrows

i trace the lines back
from my fingertips
to my heart

the feelings all start with distinction
such unique purpose
only to pool and to pulse together

and i want to un-utter
certain passions
in my cellular structure

i taste on my tongue
her absent kiss,
the three dead names i always called him,
the wet hitch of goodbye
as that failed father enters his prison,
the acidic bite in detroit
gasping as hands tighten at her neck
and they bruise her soil,
and the sharp raging bitter
of gaza
my god, some god, somebody…

can i blame it on the moon
she thinks we are hers
because we are water
with her ink on our spines

can i blame it on mercury
patterning fuckery
is this envy or legacy,
all this human catastrophe

can i recall the prophet
who spoke of joy and sorrow
carving out spaces
from each other’s bodies

why don’t we find out
there is no place outside ourselves
to put this daunting sorrow
while we breath we are still of it

what is the science
for this bent over grief
crying us to sleep
in this solitary cosmos

can i still wonder
feel wonder
when i am still of it

when my breath stops
flood me with joy
i feel room for oceans
here in my veins

for the staten island moores, in grief

for glenda and damian moore, i cannot even comprehend.
for connor and brandon moore, rest in peace.

this goddamn country
sometimes
sometimes it just takes too much

i heard about this woman
running all around in this maze
thinking she was free
just free to keep her children in her arms
but the storm took those babies
then
she thought she was free to cry for help
to wail, inside, behind white doors
help, she just called to anyone
to take her in
to make a room for her to fight for life
to grieve
to bear down through the transition

this country ain’t bethlehem
or any kind of goodnight story
this,
with our black president in tears,
is the state of our union

we are free to buy anything
even in that prison
you can get a hold of just enough
to taste that bit of freedom
on your own sucked tongue
that tingleloin declaration
you are still alive
to suffer the walls

there is also freedom
to learn those things
that will keep you docile
until you forget –
yes you mostly forget
i have seen it –
that you asked about freedom
that you longed to evolve
your life wasn’t a small talk
it was a monstrous awakening

and when you saw injustice
you called him out by his name
you showed him the way
out of your heart

this goddamn country
how can we look in each other’s eyes
over those babies’ bodies
how can we stand with any dignity
when you treat us all like this
and we stay?

talking about freedom
something to teach, fry, export, drop down
in a parachute
or guide in for explosion, by computers
but i really want to know
what freedom

freedom to suffer in silence?
cause they made us hush up
our hands, our languages
freedom to beat our babies?
like they beat us
to break us mind you
to break us
and still we do this
freedom to turn away from suffering
when it huddles in your doorway
bereft
freedom to close the door
and sit in the dark
hoping it all goes away

if i could
i would banish you
from the realm of the selfish
make you forget
the word i
poison you with wonder
and spirit
til you grew mad with love
mad with it
you goddamn country
you self-loathing multitudes
you who have my blood on your lips

just yesterday
just yesterday i came here
and already and again you have broken my heart?

i mean is there a freedom
that we can’t see?
a definitive human freedom
which permeates all of our prisons
the prison of the racist heart
the prison of the victim heart
the prison of those strangers
in staten island
who didn’t know death
when she came to the door
whose souls died when her boys died
and is there a freedom
from that moral death?

can this country
flooded with blood
let go of the
sharp instruments
let go of trying to cleave
us from us
atom from atom
master from slave, inside
inside of us

let go of that whip
chain, trauma and bitterness
let go of the belongings
that sicken your soul
with envy and longing
that you value
over the small stranger full of tears

let go of that

what freedom you might find
in your empty guilty
forgiven hands.

who comes to your door
is the mother of the new world
and somehow
someway
your house
is coming down.