Playing Dead

I pretend to execute the dog
I pretend to mourn her
She excitedly wags her tail
At my pathetic imitation of mourning
She lovingly licks my face
And nips and paws at me

One day it will not be pretend
With luck many years from now
With luck not on those cold medical tables
She will not wag her tail
She will not lick real tears
The next day I’ll do a pathetic imitation
Of a person

Glimpse of a Hairline

I step out of the shower and wipe a lightly fogged mirror
Checking my hair and skin against the tyranny of dry air
Here and there my hair has grown thinner
A shallow sadness settles on me like dust kicked up by a sneeze

Sadness tinted by joy that I may be sad
Joy tinted by a distant mourning
For those boys who joyously sacrificed their lives
Profit and prophets
A paradise they will never see
Treated as expendable while their hearts burned for truth
That they will never step out of a shower and between drying thigh and groin
Suddenly notice a spot in their hairline that has grown thinner


I walk through pristine halls
With gods from every people
Their eyes on me
Their strength washing over me
Why are your icons here?
When you are still to be adored
Why are you here?
Being treated as a curious thing?
Your spirit makes me dizzy
I retreat to the artifacts of my nation’s founders

Their spirit does not sing out

Pubic Hair

I pluck an errant pube
Who escaped a quick trim
A moment of mild discomfort as follicle gives way to force
I hold it up to the light
Looking for signs of grayness
Trying to divine if I’ll find an early grave

That single solitary pube
The tip is redder than red then becomes blonde then brown
Then coal black
I hold it up to the light
And for an instant I realize the generations of men and women
And men who wished they were women and women, men
Coalescing in front of me in this form of a single pubic hair
I drop it to the ground
I return to my game

God is Love

God is Love
Not the sentimental sort
Of Hallmark cards and Hummels
God is Love
The kind of  love that is:
flesh slapping against flesh
Moaning, panting, sweating
Toe-curling, eye-rolling, explosive
Fucked senseless into praising your Creator
God’s secret name is: A satisfied moan

John 15:5

If you remain in me and I in you
You will bear much fruit
You’ve spent your life
chasing chances
The promise of potential was far preferable to reality
Keep the promise the promise
Don’t bring it to actuality

Apart from me
You can do nothing
It is sadism
A hell of dependence that the mystics call bliss
Dependence is vulnerability is weakness
I want to be weak

I am the vine
You are the branches
The air tonight is warm and still
There is something floral in the air
It reminds me of you and I paw at my rosary
Lacquered wood passing over fingers
No prayers pour from my lips
What have we done?
I lose my memory of you bit by bit
Something stirs on the branches of the trees
Make me weak

dark nature night tree
Photo by SplitShire on