Do your words support this one tradition or
that? did the vault of your craft meek out
yet another salve or did it glare in revulsion to craft? do you
salvage or savage the cow at the altar of the unholy? does
the sacred tempt you to sacrilege or do you bow?
will you pause to recall or
move on? will the line ever reveal
what hides or will it too linger off into
distraction (o the webs to save our
words from being more than what they pretend
to be)? where is beauty in this rubble
in the aftermath of one million six hundred sixty
seven forgettings? what molds the tank of
tumors that five hundred and fifteen
vessels of impunity contend to hide?
this is all within reason this is all within
sight and the bugles will sing of your
aftersong they will burn less brilliant
with each lie unless the count
is singed anew.
Caring is done with mouths / fingers
ink tub of feel worded want it is done without
question it is done within each ask of want it
is the want of curbing blood it is how the hammer
nails your meaning into your skin into your gender into your kin
into each marker of sin each voice that stuns your station
your reach your win it is done with mouths / fingers
ink “I care for our world / if I stop / caring about one
it would be only / a matter of time / before I stop
loving / the other (Pat Parker)”
Something in a poem misses a beat and a river crashes
somewhere a village whispers the vapor of retreat a
slur gashes the rainbow as each arrow of harm
is blurred – something in a poem misses a beat and
the heart quickens to mollify the red mishappenings.
First posted here.