Weekly Read's blog

Great, Again

Gray regime breakfast
blunt and slow: rain pouring
intermittently, sideways.
As the television drones
of political sports,
the dry eggs assault me
with unknown ingredients.

Finally, the big game:
the crowd watches, aghast...

Hollow Bodies

Coffee house philosoph
playing open chords on a hollow body,
knock off beats penning cynicisms
over poetry,
the shutter-speed-dealers and
faux-pigmenters sullenly sly-jiving pomp and prints
to sleep with easily impressed marks,
confusing ego and creativity...

Song of the Suicide

The compost brings growth to the garden. Every rotting body
drags itself into the earth.

Cremation is for those afraid of their flesh falling to ribbons,
streaming through hairy grass,

a festival for the end of the day. The sun gives itself over to storms
to imagine the scoured face revealed

when the rain ends and, heat-kissed, the world steams into newness.
Rawness. Salt of the earth where nothing grows...

I've Drawn Monsters since I Can Remember

When I was a child I had a small flip book—a kind of notebook bestiary. Each page was smudged and brimming with portraits made of wings and teeth, of sunflower petals and horns: desires made up of scales and yellowed toenails abutting soft green flesh. I realize now they were reflections of something I did not understand, and collected from ideas of a world that seemed breathtakingly huge and possible.

In hindsight, they betrayed my desperate urge to create something that had never existed before.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve never stopped drawing monsters. But largely, these reflections have shifted from those creatures that do not exist to those that do, albeit ones that are mangled and magnified into ridged, and painful constructions...

Stations

Inside the broken-necked chapel, kneeling in the debris of other people’s faith, she held up a stained glass fragment outlining Mary's perfect suffering.

“I could be like this for you,” she said. “I could mourn you so hard it would bring you back.”

I saw her then, in blue, lips bit ragged and bleeding, eyes luminous with the power of a loss unaccepted. A sunrise or bomb blast would turn the world into her halo.

But there, in the church, she brushed dust from her cheek with a pilled sweater sleeve, then held the colored glass flat between her palms. It disappeared like a street magician's trick.

She was supposed to wink. I was supposed to clap. But I took her empty hands in my own and to anyone looking through the rafters’ gaps, it would seem like we were praying.

Romance

If it became apparent that the world was about to end
some un-deflectable comet slung our way
from who knows where
or rising waters that won’t subside

I would make my way to where you live
and we would run off somewhere quiet
to see out the last day
together...

From a Dove

Only the Wormwood Star
should carry bitterness.
Hearts were not meant
for such heavy loads.
Anger weighs
one thousand pounds
hooks itself in
anchors one down.
A feather is forgiveness
hard to catch in the wind
or hold in a hand.
It darts all about...

Bristol Board

I’m not going to respond to your Facebook request of joining a march downtown LA; I’ll simply show up. I can’t reveal how my politics don’t mesh with my workplace values because having a say in politics is no longer safe in a workplace. Not anymore.

I am trying to empathize with the person who wants to help
but also aware how it’s too late.

Because now you know the power of a response, to show your friends what you value. You should have shared that post about a woman’s right to chose is something you agree with, you shouldn’t hide your opinion. Who are you afraid of? Your boss? Your co-workers?

Is this where we are going?
Censoring our opinions in what should be a space of dissent...

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