blessed

 Blessed are the poor in spirit

or maybe that's just the poor

i need more spirit, that's for sure

i don't feel blessed

i'm not the best

at love. Ineffective,

recursive. I sit

like slick

black grease. Greed,

or grief. I need

less of myself, more

spirit. Sipping spoons

of my own sins--no prophet, 

I meant 

to sing you songs, 

not this lament

of middle age

unwomanhood, ungrown

to fruitfulness, 

curling the same sour leaves.

Bees leave my flowers alone,

they don't taste sweet.

Escapist, weak willed, it's soap in my throat, 

acid bitter, acedia

medication

mental masturbation

shame's as good as any reason

to turn away from all this

shit--

Good God, the self pity

was bad enough at eight, at twelve, sixteen

At thirty it's obscene

as a newborn crowning, streaked

with chalky grease, red and white

helpless, sinless, hungry 

to gape for suck and wail.

Will you, God, mother us 

at your own breast

when we so streaked and shameless scream?

Will you, till we rest?

haiku stuff

 clouds, teased out and soft

against the sky, like cotton 

or white wool, unspooled

may days unwind warm,

unhurried. Promise summer, 

someday, soon

soon we will sweat and 

shine, heat greased and gleaming, flushed

pink, unfolding freckles

february's seeds

unfolded now, brown specks broken

into new green leaves

green, and more green. May 

breathes thick with it. Air crammed

with pollen and plant breath

always, the assault: 

no tender prickle at eye 

and throat, these seeds have teeth

red throat lizard, bright

red bird, roses unfolded

loose as cups, as clouds

some may days the blue 

blue sky

blooms with its loose, its tender clouds

heartbreak glassbreak

heartbreak, glass break

it's goddamn hard here

even when you're not alone

sweep up the pieces

guess i'm going on 

sharp edge glitter in the dustpan

blood slick in my hand

floor's sticky with spilled wine

how you doing sweetheart

one day i'll be doing fine

heartbreak, glass break

sweep it up the best you can

dump the pieces in the garbage

go rinse off your hand

how you doing sweetheart

we do the best we can

blues for the children

Can't get back my baby

No matter what I do

I can't get back my baby 

No matter what I try to do

Whole world full of children shining

All I want is you

Fed my baby peanut butter

Fed my baby rice and beans

Can't put meat on the table

Can't grow backyard greens

Fed my baby peanut butter

Bills past due again

Want to burn that goddamn schoolhouse

Want to burn it to the ground

all those broken window schools

Just want to burn them down

Want to pack up all my babies

And leave this goddamn town

Five dollar bottle 

couple gram of weed

Gonna buy myself a bottle

and a little bag of weed

I might as well buy something 

I can't get what I need

Look at all the pretty babies

In their worn out tennis shoes

Look at all the pretty babies

Makes you want to sing the blues

Whole world full of children

All I want is you

I can't get back my baby

No matter what I do 

I said I can't get back my baby

Baby

No matter what I do

little foxes (scraps)

We all like foxes snap and bite at scraps,

the shreds left on the bones, that stink

gnaw our trapped legs--

welcome the sharp shred of our own teeth  

the pain we choose--a little breath

perhaps, away 

from where we're spitted

with unchosen teeth

We spit and hiss behind our little teeth,

we nip and snap, we spit

We all like little foxes snap and bite

We run, burned from our dens, by dried wheat set alight--

our little holes, our little stinking dens, 

our dark and bone filled burrows.

Like little frightened foxes meet our little ends. 

garden haiku

Little sprigs push up through

dirt, hopeful, though nights bite

still, with hurtful chill.

Will these brave green threads

stretch root enough to weather

through to warmer days?

Once overbold, early

cilantro sprouts shrink down

again, chill-chastened.

I plant and replant,

hoping this batch, this time, will

last till green. Grow strong!

Poor system: to seed

but not to cherish. Little

sprouts neglected droop.

No salad spring, no 

summer squash. Hope untended

yields no fruit but rot.

Garden hungry, I 

have, bare handed, torn roots

of trees from clinging dirt.

Every year my plots

packed with good soil and seeds

sprout strong, joyful weeds.

I will be gardener

for insects. Spiders, squash bugs, 

wasps, and worms: welcome.

I'd bury myself

in sweet dirt, if I could, smell

the sun draw me up in leaves.

January

A new year: lungs unlocked

again, soft skies, a tender chill. 

My eyes released from frantic screens

to see again the beetle

goldbacked, gleaming

dart into dirt clods, 

brown grass grown winter brittle,

though the citronella

sprawls sharp scented green.

From a bud softened tree a mockingbird

sings for once, fluid, free

as sky itself,

breath opens into this world,

becoming new again,

bright and brave and new.

question

How is this world good? How right?

the best of all possibilities 

of being,

the only way to gather up the threads

of all these lives?

Shall all be well?

Lord, through what dark and bloodstriped door 

are we borne, wailing

into a life of grace?

Must it always be this: the crushing, and the grief?

Are we, altogether, so stained

that only death makes way for better life?

Is this faith? To ask, at last, that we be eaten up

by our own appetites, by our own wounds

to make a place for better life?

Is our painful death a gift for what comes next?

You Who demanded the children too

be consecrated 

to You in death

even the children, Lord, 

and the beasts,

You Whose Name is mercy--

You do not let us forget it, 

they are written into scripture,

how Your demands glittered,

unrelenting,

biting and breakable as teeth.

I would not see my people crushed,

our children lost--

Is there no healing? 

Is this our last best hope:

A god who sees, who holds each tear, and who ordains

no less pain

I make my claim

against your righteousness: 

I rest

my case.