Letter to the boy with the unstoppable heart

Tell the inhabitants of this broke-down place

new sheriff in town…

who so resembles the

wise child posed

Years ago in a picture 

Beneath this ink-blue-night-sky sombrero,

Clark Gable mustache, glint of forever in your eyes

As this endless tide rakes an uneven shore

As words fail to form the adequate cup for sorrow

You go on-

Unstoppable heart.

Boy with the unstoppable 

Heart.

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Dissembling Wrong

So close

to a reclusive keeper

of memories, of wrongs

Shuffling among the forgotten objects

Placeholders for the barely living:

anonymous empty

water bottles, hollow and crumpled

Become the jury

Old newspapers still swaddled in

Their plastic rain protectors

Told to be 

Witnesses or spectators

Instructed to rise 

As a one-armed nutcracker assumes the bench

Rag doll court reporter records the proceedings 

Mr. Vinegar prosecutes while

the defense attorney was appointed from among the 

A pantheon of generic

Happy Meal toys.

But the victims are living songbirds

Twittering in the disheveled

cage of my heart of course

Always re-animating  dried bones-

Off-kilter, neglected, wrongs

Will inexorably be

Radically, fundamentally transformed

When the true King

Calls them back

To life

Break-up Songs (for babies)

in the space of no more than

Half-an-hour

someone steals his little shoes

dear to him/dear to us

Still, just shoes.

At the scene of the crime we

Call their names

Thinking whoever did this has to  love them 

Must have loved them

Oh.  This song I know the words by heart

Sang it all those years ago

With all the other sodden

Unbearable

Break up songs for babies.


To the bone

somewhere floating in the ether of souls there is

another us

Without the inevitable entrapment of self-preservation

-The pig mom and the human child

I use my truncated vocal apparatus 

 to try to warn you you are

– not safe here

among the scientists

With their crisp white coats and syllogistic rejoinders

They count pieces of us

Placing animal in one

category 

and the human in another

Bone-bone-bone-

Spleen-heart-cornea-

Never question whether we can

see color or 

Feel pain 

Confined instead to

Diminished souls jarred by

All the words for

monster

Origami Anger

She folds the old court room,

kangaroo judge, too-

 chatty DA,

disembodied victim’s advocate

Into a single square of 

pressed paper

Mama’s voice cracks over the

willful substitution 

rendering mandatory sentences into a

Chain of paper doll victims

flattened easily

Into origami anger

….funny hats to

fragile sodden boats 

hit by each percussive wave of 

Shouldn’t-‘ve-been

Shouldn’t-ever-have-been

Done-to-us folds

The Cone of Silence

after almost exactly 30 years 

I return to the original cone of silence

Scooped not by time and chance but the

Actual-true-hand of God

near the plain of Megiddo

where bad, terrible, awful things have, did, and will 

Happen.

You have a tell, my dear

In all your smack talk about leprechauns and canine destinations for women

At 2:30 in the morning

the aircraft flies too loud, too close

to my insomnia 

I remember your anger is your origami armor

against the wounded you-us-story

sewn into the cloak

of every disguise you put on

in vain.

Anger in the roses

your birthday falls

between the Ides of February and

pruning day for roses

when the master gardener

makes them sound so alive, so fragile, so human

the way you once were

Boy without words for the monsters

we all become without the Antidote 

without the blood transfusion 

without the interventionist God

Who somehow, ineluctably abides

this fallen terrible

world where children, babies even

grow up thinking both antichrist and apocalypse are normal

Whole time grown ups

Just shout the most destructive platitudes

into the shotgun corridor of

This unbearable

desolation.