We set a bona fide

We set a bona fide signal, a special,
feral noise—hell’s gates are always open,
the damned are there by choice—
It’s good to feel strong, healthy again—
“You don’t write serious, you write funny,”
she said, “Not at all about the starved,
the outraged, naked nameless dead”

Well I, for one, have much more respect
for funny now “They tried to make me go
to rehab, I said, no, no no,” she sang
That wasn’t defiance—sad Amy
rehabbed four times, failed and died—too late,
too late, so slowly does time unwind— for the
lovers of truth and those whom truth defies

Action denies human richness
Friendship is vulnerability
Politicians stake our truths on their
appearances—their fights always
over anger and material strides—
their political ideals just pretexts in
hell because they want to be there

A scent of cedar or pine,
rotted leaves, decayed bark, silence,
rest—moonlight over spider webs,
flighty forest streams and dreams,
where each meaning is the result of
“one will, one health, one soil, one
 sun, perfection, silence and rest”

as if we could write our way
to sheer essence because you’re mine
within a non-linguistic course, pattern,
separation, being—your coarse
grifter’s mask of unbearable deceit
and suffering, withering in gleams of
the low winter’s sun against buildings

made of steel and glass—how we disappear
into the glare and blur of unconstrained light,
as spontaneously as a tree bears fruit, like
a clever shallow essence, as successful as
a revolution that takes its stock from the
flawed corrupt state rebelled against—
I’m your safety, your oasis, your rock

-November 16, 2019-