O Guardian Angel,
what’s that blood
on your wings?
I want to stand
beneath your shield and sword,
but I need to know.
O Guardian Angel,
what’s that dirt
on your hands?
I want you to stand above my house,
and be my flag,
but I need to know.
Oh Guardian Angel,
what’s that weeping
coming out of your trumpet?
I want you to be the shepherd of my children,
and the one who guards
my soul’s treasure,
but I need to know.
You don’t think I want all the angry voices
to be eclipsed
by the power of One Love?
You don’t think I want all the scorched wounds
of the world
to be soothed
by the shadow of your healing wings
falling over the earth?
You don’t think I want one great heart
to take the place
of the knives
of many nations?
You don’t think that I want
Mecca and Jerusalem to make love
and the holiness in all the holy places
to become the One Holiness?
You don’t think I want to open every door
to you,
to give you my weapons, my dreams,
and my life?
I am ready for you,
Great angel.
So ready for you.
Centuries of blood,
and endless achievements of hate
- bat’s wings we gave ourselves to fly,
and landslides of dark ideas,
leading to new ideas,
until, now, the whole
mountain of our mind
is collapsing with
thoughts of death,
that we cannot stop:
this is what has made me
ready for you,
long for you,
cry out for you.
Great Guardian Angel,
we are ready!
All of us!
Ready, at last,
to stop the quarrels,
and follow you like children.
Ready to surrender
to the Holiness.
But, what’s that I see?
Blood on your wings?
Dirt on your hands?
Weeping in your trumpet?
Are you truly the angel
we seek,
or only the same dark heart,
that stole the angel’s face?
That used the angel’s wings
not to fly,
the angel’s hands
to wield a selfish sword,
and the angel’s trumpet,
to herald Empire
instead of Paradise?
God help us,
when the angel is stolen:
May our belief in angels
not die!
Last night, I heard a voice from the wounded world cry:
He who would be the Guardian
of the Earth,
must pay the price.
It is not easy to be an Angel.
And we have waited long enough
to know what we are
waiting for…
January 30, 2003.
Sure,
there’s a lesson to be
learned,
something positive
to be gained;
a lesson to be learned,
something to be won
from all this pain;
a lesson to be learned,
a sunny day
behind the rain;
a lesson to be learned,
some dark horse
to be restrained;
a lesson to be learned,
some brilliant vision
to break the chains;
a lesson to be learned,
a miracle to touch
the lame;
a lesson to be learned…
Yes, a lesson to be learned…
That there are sorrows
beyond consolation;
pits with no steps leading out;
knives that stay
in hearts, forever;
good-byes that never end;
tears that remain
after the meditation,
that no mountain
can ever rise above.
When you’ve lost it all,
you’ll see.
That the only joy left
is the knowledge of beauty,
that’s contained
in its absence.
The longing and suffering
that is a way of worshipping it.
The crying eyes
that are a vow of loyalty to it:
and the pride of dying
like a warrior,
without ever turning one’s heart
off.
Yes, there’s a lesson to be learned…
That not every cloud
has a silver lining.
That once you have truly loved,
the darkness
is enough.
A lesson to be learned…
A lesson to be learned…
Just keep crying.
It’s a way of loving,
and love is all
we have.
The Nemean Lion.
What a battle!
He ripped everyone who came into
his presence
into little pieces.
He destroyed every incursion into his realm,
even the most humble breath,
the inadvertent desire to live.
But then you came to him
with the walk of a hero.
You faced his roar,
and his charge,
you met his dark, bounding shape
without taking a
single step backwards.
That’s how much
life meant to you,
that you were willing to
look into
death’s eyes
to find it.
Yes, you…
You bore the wounds
of wanting to live:
the hot, bleeding gashes
of all your mistakes;
the deep trails of the claws,
that dug into your flesh to find
your courage,
like buried treasure
in the place where your body
became you soul;
the great cloud of dust
that hid everything
except from those who
knew the two yous,
the one who sought the lion,
and the one who returned.
One day,
after falling far behind your friends,
who thought you were just a failed version
of themselves,
you emerged from the wilderness
they dared not enter,
club in hand,
the fierce skins of the Nemean lion
draped over your body,
like armor.
Your wounds
had become your guardians,
and no one could touch you,
then.
The impenetrable hide of the beast
you killed
became your savior,
the battle that nearly destroyed you
became your protection.
No arrow or spear
could pierce that sorrow
and that wisdom,
no weapon’s point or edge
penetrate the
power of your losses.
The battle gave you
what you thought
it would steal.
A New York City Holy Warrior (AKA Orange Alert)
I’m a New York City Holy Warrior.
My jihad is life.
I’m a New York City Holy Warrior.
My Mecca is to live right.
Life is all around me.
Why am I going to pull out
before my time?
Beautiful people
want to be loved.
Amazing miracles
want to be
seen.
Every day,
the Red Sea wants to part,
in some way.
I’m a New York City Holy Warrior.
My jihad is life.
When Eve took the apple,
no one knew
that the serpent was really
God, wearing a disguise:
Her sin, and Adam’s,
was to believe
that life comes from the Devil,
and not from God.
I want to taste the fruit
every day,
in New York.
I want to dance
and laugh, my way of
putting the darkness
in its place.
I’m a New York City Holy Warrior.
My jihad is life.
Sin is living off of others,
like a vampire.
Sin is living other people’s lives,
that you have stolen.
I have never been that way.
My life
is between me
and the Universe.
No one has a right
to butt in.
My moments of happiness -
I’ve paid for them
with oceans of sorrow.
They’re not
stolen goods.
I am a New York City Holy Warrior.
My jihad is life.
I won’t let hate
push me down into a hole,
like a frightened
rodent.
I won’t let hate
take my heart away from the world,
that wants my love.
I won’t let hate
make me be
the same as them.
I won’t let hate
freeze me where I am,
when I still have so far to go.
When I’m wrong,
I want to know it,
and I want to change.
But that’s not my way of
begging for mercy.
That’s just my way
of being me.
I’m a New York City Holy Warrior.
Just as holy as you.
God Bless You, Mecca,
God Bless the pilgrims dressed in white,
and their holy journey!
But there are holy journeys here, too,
hidden in other forms:
Mothers standing by their children
in the middle of the icestorm;
taxi driver heroes,
driving all night in the shadow of guns
to keep homes
in two lands alive;
dreamers of the Exodus,
holy vision-seekers trapped in
the desert of waiting tables,
who make what they are trying to leave beautiful,
because they're here;
fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters,
sons and daughters
riding elevators to unhappiness
to bring something back
to the ones they love,
small gifts of light
that they make out of darkness:
love, and the power of love
flowing through the veins
of the cold giant,
hope that not even these towering buildings
could crush.
(That's greatness, to be so small
and not be destroyed.)
Here, in New York,
it's not what's in the store windows of Fifth Avenue:
it's the reflection
of the beautiful faces
looking in, for one moment,
before moving on
to the reality
of themselves.
When I come here, I don't see what
the enemy sees,
those who see only the pride
of buildings
trying to
pierce clouds
and make the sky bleed.
I see streets burning with the sacredness
of millions of ordinary lives passing through,
the unseen people
so much brighter than
the "bright lights
of Broadway."
Martyrs,
beautiful for the dreams they did not reach,
and for the children they left behind
to keep on
dreaming.
I see holiness,
so much holiness here -
it’s like the ocean
pouring onto the beach
of my heart
that is wounded for all of us,
it's like the night
suffering from an overdose
of stars;
underneath its suffocating rush
are tears
that God could have cried,
and tiny moments of joy
that defeat
the stones.
I don’t want to leave it
because of you.
I don’t want
to give up living here
because of you.
I don’t want to end up loving
its sins, because your hate has
driven me into their arms.
And I don’t want to abandon
its goodness,
just to get out of the way of
your bullets.
I’m a New York City Holy Warrior.
My jihad is life.
And when I die,
when I’m finally ripped from
my wounded paradise,
let no one cry for me,
let no one say,
"Poor, innocent, helpless victim!"
Let them say, instead,
"Today,
a Holy Warrior
went back to God.
He died fighting.
In his city.
For his city.
Just by living to the end,
which is the same as
fighting to the end."
Let no one say,
"Why did he have to go out at that hour,
on that day?"
Let them remember this:
No man can be at the wrong place
at the wrong time.
He can only be
where God wants him
to be.
May God’s purpose be fulfilled,
even by my death!
His Will be done!
I’m a New York City Holy Warrior.
My jihad is life.
Praise be to God!
God is great!
See? - I can say that,
too.
I’m a New York City Holy Warrior.
My jihad is life.
If they kill me
don’t shoot into a crowd
just to get my killer.
Don’t put my name
on a bomb.
Don’t cry
like I was a little kid
run over by a car
(I wasn’t).
And don’t use me
to do your dirty work.
Just let me be.
Give me back
to my holy mountain.
Let the wind
blow my dreams
where they’re needed most.
Feed the hungry.
Clothe the naked.
Forget about me,
and live.
Find the heart you were supposed to have,
and live.
New me’s will be born,
in the space
of your opening heart.
Find the heart you were supposed to have,
and live.
Don’t pretend to mourn me,
and keep on being
only one half of you.
If they kill me,
don’t seek revenge.
I wasn’t a victim,
because I was ready.
Every day,
even when I was
caught
by surprise.
If they kill me,
don’t seek revenge,
seek justice.
That’s what will make them
die.
And don’t cry.
Give thanks to God,
who loved me so.
I got out of here,
without ever
dropping His flag.
I lost my life,
but not myself.
Lately, I’ve been feeling I could
die any day.
So it’s time.
Time to write the will.
Nobody likes to do it.
They say,
who wants to think of black
when the sun’s still out?
But for me,
the sun’s not out.
And to be honest,
leaving doesn’t seem
all that bad.
When you’ve got a bullethole
in you,
and you’ve left all your blood
in the right place,
it doesn’t seem that bad…
It’s like taking off
a heavy cloak of lead
and finally beginning to walk free.
Just thinking about not being here
any more -
it’s like having a day off,
at the beach.
Heaven,
or Nothing?
Does it matter?
A pillow and a bed are the only Heaven
a weary traveler needs.
I did what I could, while I was here,
dragging this ball and chain
of people who didn’t
understand me.
When they find my body,
it won’t be inside the prison gate.
That’s what matters.
Even if I’m only one hundred yards
out…
Yes, it’s good to write my will today.
To take out this pen
that feels so light
(now that I’ve stopped expecting my words
to save me),
and just let it write
"Good-bye."
I don’t have anything to leave anyone.
A few notebooks
filled with illegible dreams.
An old guitar
with hidden memories of
songs that no one ever heard.
Diaries,
not for others.
(Why should they ever know?)
Boxes of secrets
that should be burned.
I don’t have anything to leave behind.
Nothing to leave behind,
except for this world
that could still be beautiful.
Nothing to leave behind,
except for an empty place
to be filled.
Nothing to leave behind,
except for you,
the ones who won’t stop
trying.
Nothing to leave behind,
except for time,
which is slowly building
paradise
out of our defeats.
Walking Together (February 15, 2003)
Walking together.
Such a long time alone.
Such a long time,
being dissolved by the acid
of my dream
in a dark place.
Such a long time
like a hermit guarding
the mountain’s soul,
with no human voice or touch
to take me away from the fear
of not waking up
every time
I closed my eyes.
Such a long time,
like the Buddha
of a broken palace,
waiting for someone
to find his way
through the jungle
to what used to be
in my heart.
Such a long time.
Walking together.
Such a long time.
Walking back
to who I was.
Such a long time.
It doesn’t matter
that you’re not me,
you’re going to the same place
with your crazy rainbow
soul,
go on,
and kiss her, kiss him,
reason, rave, rap, or just walk.
Angels walk
more than they fly.
They want to be with us.
They don’t want to
desert us,
by flying.
Such a long time.
It doesn’t matter whether you come under your
mandala,
your hammer and sickle,
or your stars and stripes,
today,
you’re all blossoming
with what the world needs,
and it’s wonderful
to be in the midst
of so many differences
that don’t need guns.
Black, white, brown, yellow, red,
these are the colors
of peace.
Today,
our color is our dream:
our one beautiful face,
our one beautiful
skin.
Such a long time
Since I was me.
Since my beliefs
worked their way down to
my feet.
Since my search for the roots
released me to what’s
in plain sight.
Though the solution is deep,
the pain is right here,
on the surface.
There are times
when you have to
close the book of seeking,
and just run out the door
like everyone else,
towards the person who is crying "Help!"
Though it’s only a holding action,
a life's at stake!
Lost cause, or not,
no one wants to die
without love.
If you can’t stop the bullets,
hold the one who’s dying,
like a mother
holds her child.
No one wants to die
without love.
Though it might not be stopped,
every dark machine
needs a foot on the brakes.
If you can’t stop it,
at least you can make that horrible screeching sound,
that lets everybody know
what’s going on.
Such a long time.
Since I felt there was goodness
in the world.
It took so much cruelty and injustice
to bring it out.
But the smaller some people’s hearts are,
the bigger other people’s hearts
become.
Such a long time.
Since I felt I
deserved
to be
alive.
General Custer lives.
He didn’t die at the Little Big Horn.
He just took a rest.
And now he’s back.
People talk about Elvis,
and how they’ve seen him,
riding down a lonely
highway.
Well, I’ve had visions of General Custer.
In high places.
And in the doorway,
where I used to stand,
like the lions at the public library,
but with a soul of love
that let people come in
without bowing.
Why would I want anyone
to bow down to me?
He who seems to do the least
does the most.
He who is invisible
rules most wisely.
Lao Tze caught the wind.
But fools
use their power
to destroy their power.
And they pushed me out,
to do things their way.
To make good people crawl.
To make a crown
out of other peoples’
humiliation.
And lately, everywhere I go,
I am seeing General Custer.
His flowing hair and pride,
his saber stealing flashes of the sun,
his trumpets
trying to turn him into everything.
When you are empty,
all the pride in the world will not fill you.
And enemies
will never cease to come.
Like the waters of a river,
they will flow endlessly
from your own poisoned heart,
and never be exhausted,
even after they pour
into the sea.
You will win a battle,
and your reward will be another battle.
You will kill a thousand foes,
and like the teeth of the ancient dragon,
only sow a new field
of warriors
with them.
Your selfishness
will surround you with hate,
and there will be no way
to stop fighting.
Ever.
No chance to sleep.
Ever.
Fools!
General Custer was that way.
I can still see him, riding on his horse
as though he owned
the whole world:
the sky.
The grass.
The sunrise,
and the last red
streaks of light following the sun
into darkness.
I can still hear his bugles sounding through
the snowstorm,
at dawn,
the Irish tune, disgraced,
the peaceful village about to die,
so that he could be great.
Daring to
rise
by climbing up
a mountain
of broken hearts.
Daring to fill his own
pale veins
with the good red blood
of people
who were better than him.
Maybe that’s why
he had to kill them.
And that is what
he was going to do
at the Little Big Horn, too,
until his appetite got the better of him;
and his vanity and ambition.
And on that day he drowned
in his own insatiable desires,
underneath waves of beautiful people
who had no choice
but to become his enemy.
He fell on the slopes of the dusty hill,
overwhelmed by
what he had brought.
A hero to those as blind as him.
A fool to the sky
that watched it happen.
Yet, even so,
even though he fell on that day
of war drums and medicine
- (praise to you Sitting Bull,
praise to you Crazy Horse,
praise to all of you who would not let him
rob again!) -
General Custer is not yet
dead.
I have seen him around here, lately,
up to the same old tricks.
Prowling around.
Still empty.
Still unable to find value in himself
except by believing
others
worthless.
Still laughing at the world.
Still arrogant.
Still haughty.
Still believing that groveling and respect
are the same thing,
and therefore,
never able to get enough respect;
always offended,
whenever he sees a man who is not on his knees.
General Custer lives.
Lately, I have been having visions of him
everywhere,
everyday.
In the workplace.
In the citadel.
In the street;
and on the ship’s bridge.
He’s the one whose hands are on the wheel,
guiding the ship
by the star of his own
dream.
His dream that he is
God.
Rules bind my hands.
Rules bind my feet.
I have a wandering heart,
but they’ve wrapped me up
like a mummy
with "Don’t do this"
and "Don’t do that."
Now, finally,
they’ve given me a chance
to break all the rules.
They’ll untie me
for one minute
in the world.
Some oil
for my blood.
Like a walk
in the prison courtyard.
Who wouldn’t jump for the chance
to get out of the cell?
"It’s good,
it’s right," they tell me.
"This time, you can break
the rules."
How generous of them!
They made a dragon
just for me,
and took off the shackles
so I can be a knight.
For one minute.
For them.
Like a walk in the prison
courtyard.
A moment out of the cell.
Rules bind my hands.
Rules bind my feet.
But not over there.
How I’ve wanted to break the rules!
All my life.
The rules that keep me from life!
How I’ve wanted to break the rules!
All my life.
The rules that keep me from life!
"Not here.
Over there.
That way."
How could I say no?
How could I not go there?
Now I can be a hero.
Now I can finally matter.
Not here.
Over there.
Over there…
You always pushed us around
and took what you wanted,
you turned our sweat into your gold
and left us with nothing; but still,
you weren’t through with us:
Now you want to use us
like your video game
("M" for "Mature"),
like your WWE Smackdown
steel cage fight.
Pop! Pop!
Zip! Zip!
Swoosh!
Pow!
Zing!
Take us out.
Prove yourself.
See what skill level you can achieve.
You want it to be painless,
with just enough blood and tears
to make it feel
real,
like the Battle of the Bulge.
You want someone from your side to die,
so you can
have a martyr
to cover over
our thousands,
like a bulldozer pushing
bodies
into an unmarked grave.
Pop! Pop!
Zip! Zip!
Swoosh!
Pow!
Zing!
War: the latest reality series.
Pop! Pop!
Zip! Zip!
Grunt!
Groan!
Sigh!
Mad with buttons,
dazed from the angel dust of games,
with minds used to fantasies,
you dare to break down the door to reality,
and enter our lives.
Autistic nation,
lost from the piercing truths of the world!
Trained on sofas, to kill.
Joystick warriors,
soldiers of the mouse click.
Who put the world into a Game Cube?
Who put devil masks
onto people just trying to live?
Ingenuous nation,
bombing spiders,
and following serpents.
But soon, someone from your side will die,
and then solemn bells of mourning
will bury the rest of the world
from your heart,
as you write the
next page
of history.
What do they say?
"Anyone can write a book
these days."
Soon the soldiers.
No, no,
don’t go into the dark water
the wise ones say.
But then the soldiers
will be sent.
Like little babies thrown
into the water,
the soldiers will be sent.
Little babies
coming back in blood.
Little babies
crying out in pain.
Little babies
drowning in the waves.
And then, who will be able to say no,
don’t go there?
Everyone will want to
jump into the dark waters
to save them.
Little babies
put in uniforms,
and thrown into the waves.
Soon, the soldiers.
No, don’t go there
the wise ones said.
It’s wrong.
But then, the soldiers will be sent.
And since no one wants to say
My son and daughter
are being used by the dark
war machine,
the hungry war machine,
the unfeeling war machine,
the war machine that ran over
the flowers of peace
when they were still blooming,
they will say
My son and daughter are
fighting to free the world.
Disagree,
and to them,
it will be like you,
yourself, were shooting at their children.
Soon, the soldiers.
Human shields used by
ambitious men,
to keep you from reaching
the black truth
of what they are doing.
From the maps they want to change
with words of liberty
and claws of beasts…
Good young men and women
who only wanted to be of use,
set up all around the killers,
like a wall of hostages.
Sandbags of people
we love.
"Support the troops."
"Support the troops."
Dragging you behind the crime
because you want to defend
the beautiful people
who have just been thrown
in the path of your
peace march.
Dragging you behind the crime,
because you want to defend
the beautiful people
who have been turned into invaders,
but who, for you,
will always be their
good intentions,
and your love for them,
not the targets they
have been given.
Soon, the soldiers.
They are the ace in the hand of the killers,
when they are caught, red-handed,
tearing out the bowels
of nations.
"Support the troops."
Your sons and daughters,
your neighbors’ sons and daughters,
put in the way of your gun
of love.
Soon, the soldiers.
The dirtiest trick
of a dirty war.
Workers.
Soldiers.
Philosopher-kings.
Workers.
Soldiers.
Philosopher-kings.
The perfect system.
Everyone has a job to do.
The workers build the city.
The soldiers defend it.
The philosopher-kings rule it.
Everyone does what he does best.
The workers sweat.
The soldiers shoot.
The philosopher-kings rule.
The perfect, logical order.
Everyone is master of an inch.
Virtuoso of an inch.
Genius of an inch.
Put the inches together,
and you have a country.
The philosopher-kings are the high-flying hawks
who see it all,
the only ones to have a vision of the whole:
because that’s their job.
Although it seems to be a democracy,
it’s really Plato’s beehive.
The workers work.
And trust.
The soldiers fight.
And trust.
The philosopher-kings rule,
rising high, like eagles,
upon that trust.
Trust is the only solution.
No one has the time.
Except for the philosopher-kings.
That’s their job.
Trust is the foundation.
There’s too much to look at,
after eight hours.
The philosopher-kings
will look for you.
Although it seems to be a democracy,
it is really Plato’s beehive.
The workers say, "Tell us what’s going on
out there."
The soldiers say, "Tell us who’s the enemy."
The philosopher-kings do it.
With the face of Gods.
With the voice of fathers,
telling children
a bedtime story.
With the robes of wise men,
who see and know all.
The philosopher-kings are the queen bee.
The center of the hive.
Who could do
without them?
Like God,
who arranged all the wild intricacies of Nature
into something that works.
Who could do without them?
The philosopher-kings.
Workers.
Soldiers.
Philosopher-kings.
Workers.
Soldiers.
Philosopher-kings.
The perfect order.
Trust.
The perfect order.
Except for one small thing.
The philosopher-kings are not philosophers.
The trust was raped.
The philosopher-kings are not philosophers.
Wisdom and justice?
The trust was raped.
The philosopher-kings are not philosophers.
They are blind
and hungry,
and they will lead you into
the darkness.
They are kings.
Yes, they are kings.
But not philosophers.
They are kings.
Yes, they are kings.
But not philosophers.
Poor world.
Going into the darkness.
Guided by fools.
"And many shall be
the false prophets…"
Philosopher-kings?
Can somebody just put the world
on pause?
Can we freeze it right now
before the bombs start falling,
and just look at this picture
when there’s still life
in the streets,
before the glass of peace
is broken?
Can we freeze it right now,
can we just have some time to think?
To figure things out?
There must be a way
to save this beautiful day
before it falls
off the mountain.
Maybe we can find an answer.
Maybe we can find a way
to keep the sun out.
Maybe we can just go back,
and start again, take another path.
Can somebody please hit the rewind button,
and take us back to
the day when we were
still friends?
Wanna go into
my burrow,
not to see,
not to feel,
out of reach.
They can walk
right over me,
without ever knowing
I’m there.
I don’t want to come out.
I don’t want to be a part of
this,
I don’t want to know about
it,
I want to dig deeper
into my dream world
where none of this is happening.
I don’t want to face
their cruelty
or my powerlessness.
I want to hide
in a dark, kind place,
and cling to the beauty
that dies the moment
it is brought
into the daylight.
I want to be nocturnal,
subterranean,
below this,
and to the side.
It’s enough to see their boots
pass by
through the tiny entrance
to my hole,
I don’t want to see
where they’re going,
or what the hands above them
are carrying.
It’s a good time to be deaf,
to be blind,
to disappear with one’s
heart, and all of one’s senses,
into a burrow,
into a dream,
a fantasy,
the reality
they did not choose.
For a sensitive soul,
whenever there’s a war,
it’s like the earth had no
ozone layer.
Who can live
exposed to this fierce energy?
Every drumbeat is a building
in ruins.
Every cheer means
somebody has died.
For every one who’s lost his life,
there’s another who’s lost his soul.
Who can live out here?
Who can live in a world
without love?
I wanna stay in my burrow
till it’s over,
and maybe even after it’s
over.
But every once in a while,
a voice penetrates into my hiding place,
like rainwater leaking in.
Some child crying,
some mother mourning.
Someone who "got in the way."
Someone who doesn’t have a burrow
like me.
And something rises up inside of me,
then,
that forces me to come out,
even though I know
I can’t survive here.
Even though the air is poison -
even though the burning rays
turn hope to ashes -
I come.
I have to.
Just like a river has no choice
but to flow downhill,
so I flow
towards that crying.
Even though I can’t live here,
I can still
love.
I will fight you
every inch of the way.
When you think you’ve won
and gotten past me,
I’ll still be there
like a weight in your backpack,
slowing you down,
wearing you out with my conscience
under the hot sun
of the truth.
You’ll kill
and say "Too late."
I’ll cry
and say
"I haven’t gone."
You’ll put your flag up
above a crater,
and I’ll say the name
of what used to
be there.
You’ll hide
the blood
and I’ll dig it back up.
I’ll pursue you
like the Furies,
with their snake-hair
and their memory-whips,
I’ll chase you
down the streets of your
poison victory.
I’ll haunt you like
a ghost.
I’ll be like
a sandstorm in your face,
and like a broken muffler
dragging underneath
your car.
When you say
"You couldn’t stop me",
you’ll hear me
still saying "No."
I’ll be the cut
that won’t stop bleeding.
Like a shadow
of a thousand pounds,
I’ll follow you
everywhere you go,
I won’t let you
get away from you.
I’ll make you
have to wade through the river
of my soul
every time you want
to hurt someone.
I’ll be the
hundred little seeds
in your fruit,
that you have to spit out one by one,
sniping at your pleasure.
I’ll be the bee
who buzzes around
at the picnic,
the hangover after the party,
the muddy track
that keeps you from setting
the world record.
I’ll be your best friend
disguised as your
worse enemy.
I won’t let you go to Hell
without a fight.
I won’t give up.
For them,
or for you.
For now,
or for the
future.
One day,
you’ll thank me for being
the thorn in your side
that wouldn’t let you miss
the dawn
of your opening eyes.
I saw his dried-out,
rigid
carcass
lying there,
with his head pointed down
at the sidewalk,
as if, to the very last,
he had been trying
to dig his way through
the cement
back to his home:
the earth.
I hear a seagull.
Columbus thought "land!"
I think "sea!"
Even in this sad,
powerless place,
the might of the sea
is never far away.