I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save)
the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world.
This makes it hard to plan the day. –E.B. White
Oh, my loves, it’s all so much, isn’t it?
This bile that’s bubbled up from the storm drain
Offending nostrils and ears
Stealthily seeping into pores
Set it aflame and we burn ourselves
Go to battle and the war begins within
And soon the moon will blot the sun and bathe us all in gray
I was not surprised by the events in Charlottesville.
No sadness. No anger. Just another headline.
I was not surprised by 45’s two-day response delay and the subsequent offense that launched from his sphincter lips.
All of this was just a reminder of the rubber cement that brown and black bodies are encased in at birth — a gluey noxiousness that pools between fingers, toes and lips creating a hindering, sticky web.
Pick up a pen and fumble for your grip. Speak your truth and feel your lips pull shut. Climb the ladder and contend with the invisible force clawing you down.
I make this glue wrong
I hold hate in my heart for those who’ve mixed it
I keep a desire for vengeance on a slow simmer
And to survive, I’ve learned to be comfortable in a body that is hampered in this way.
No sadness. No anger. Just another day.
I forget the putrid sticky that covers all but only thwarts some until an arrogance is unleashed.
Blame on both sides?
Then my slow-simmer flames to a raging boil.
Hate. Hate. Hate bubbles over infecting days and dreams
The world un-seams and I’m wedged between the shifting plates screaming up at the falling rock.
And what to do with this violence but meet it with my own?
Body clenched and teeth bared, I punch walls of granite expecting them to tumble from my force. But It is only my hand that is bloodied.
And it is then that I’m reminded
that the dharma of me is softness.
Fingers glued but palms open
Lips sealed but jaw unclenched
Feet bound but stepping in
Holding oppression while dismantling hate
And there I find heart ever beating
Love ever pulsing