Woman

 

Woman:

the chef-d'oeuvre held tight by strings and staples;

the diva voice a flash from fracture;

the dancer on a stage of foam.

Woman, whose force directs,

constructs, collapses realms;

whose force is painted on, 

who guiles by artifice. 

Woman, whose might is but

a flash of a flash 

of a flash in time.

Age wearies man

but crushes the feminine.

Woman:

she knows we know she knows.

Woman,

I covet you

and pity you

with equal zealotry. 

The Holy Giggle

Christ,

nailed flesh upon that wood,

what is it you prove?

What, really, is your rejection?

Is that a giggle you just gave?

Old friend,

silent master,

aloof papa,

do you teach of Heaven,

of Hell 

or of laughter?

Christ,

you cheeky cunt,

I'm starting to see the smile on your lips,

the glint in your eye

there on your dangling flesh. 

It's not that you reject the world

per se;

it's more that you refuse to engage at all. 

You conquer Death

by not acknowledging

the temptress of Life.

You absolute player, Christ.

You alpha.

You King of Kings.

Let them mess with your body...

Shit.

I really hear you laughing now

at them,

at me,

at you yourself.

The Holy Giggle, Christ.

I see, I see

the joke of it all.

How we War with Woke

 

The killers won’t kill us.

Not the lot of us.

Hell,

not even one of us.

What kills is trust that truth prevails.

It’s where the heretic burns,

the flames engulfing the crowd.

Do you see?

This ain’t a war between smart and dumb

or even right and wrong.

No,

it’s fought between blood

and bloodless

where blood strains to fill the veins

of the empty.

Everybody wins

or everybody

loses.

Friend

There’s a freedom in this loneliness,

a friend that’s on this road,

a woman in this heartache

and flesh upon this bone.

 

I did a hundred clicks today.

I know not where I aim.

I’ve given up the arrow

and scrubbed away my name.

 

So, really, there is nothing left

and girls are quick to flee:

no longer lining up like crowds

for the hero that was me.

 

Me, the man that can’t resist

the highway and it’s kin.

Me, the man that’s hungry

and hasn’t had a win.

 

And, really, when it comes to truth,

I’m just as far away.

But I’ll miss this life when I tire out

and I’ll wish it back some day. 

 

 

 

 

 

Duckling

Kalbarri during winter

and we're boxing in a duckling.

The thing's lost. 

Fuck.

There they go: my nerves. Breaking, weeping

as the thing

trips

on its little legs,

bum up and panic-stricken.

Tiny chirps so completely helpless

they're beautiful:

fear minus ego.

We're only trying to help 

return it home.

We swoop on its fall 

and scoop it up

- the thing more fragile than snow.

It lifts its little head in terror,

desperate for family,

awaiting the blow

or the crushing teeth

but we set it down where we see it's safe again. 

My arched back and cocky smile, 

my hardness of spirit,

the layers of cement 

laid down

for all tomorrows:

gone. All gone. Ruptured.

Fuck you god.

Why do lost little ducklings

have to suffer

on their little legs?

Or maybe

that there

was Christ with the Cross, 

bum up,

tripped over the shocking weight

of total innocence,

nothing left

but the faculty

to humble the everything else.