Thursday, February 16, 2017

What to say to ICE 
agents if they drop by

I’m a gentle guy (gal), more or less, 
but my question is
what kind of wall do we put up 
against Radical Caucasian Terrorism? 

(They may move closer, not answer, but go on ... )

If I can answer that, boys
I’d say it would be equal parts these:
crisp, forest-scented animal skins
moonlit and sunlit
crackling, new, bold black and yellow
the sentences and the parchment—
the Constitution. 
With that new tar smell, glued
lavishly with a lush brush onto 
the sliding dry wall of dry wit! 

(Don't worry, these men
are loud 
but thick 
also temporary; 
since they won't get any of this 
they won't get any of us. 
We'll never be this scared and lonely again, amigos.)

Let yourselves out, fellas.
I'm not that gentle.

Monday, February 6, 2017

I was a teenage light bulb

So much of my childhood I felt like an exposed light bulb. 

Up on the ceiling in a musty basement,
either not screwed in or not turned on,
or waiting for someone to pull the chain. 

But didn’t I pull it, way back then? I did! 
Didn’t I? 
Still ... this flickering feeling lingers. 

A couple of weeks ago my mother died, and she’s dead
she’s cremated, and ashes can’t pull chains, 
that's for sure. 

She isn’t going to pull it now. 

So, guess what? 

Yes, and I see the light 
and in the light, I see—the stairs up, 
out of the basement. 

I'm out of here.