My uncles are good men.
They can run businesses and
fix air conditioners, but they
lack a certain compassion.

For example:
My uncle-the small one
is angry about a problem
only encountered in this
land we call free.
He had to tell 100 people
not to shop at a certain
store because he is a
spoiled little brat.

Suddenly my brain starts
to drift into the other things
I could tell 100 people.
I could tell them I love them.
I could tell them there's a sale
on at the mall, but why do you
have to tell 100 people that
they shouldn't buy anything
here because you have
Napoleon's problem.

His mother is dying in the back room.
Tell 100 people about all the things
she did in 82 years. Tell them
she should be sainted for all
the injustices she faced so you
could tell 100 people how little
beauty you see in the world.

Sitting at the counter waiting for my cheeseburger and fries, I noticed her.
It was the first time I felt like really eating a cheeseburger and fries
Since you looked me square in the face
And told me:
You didn't love me anymore.

She is beautiful, I'll give her that
But she's sitting at a table full of men
Burly men, not your kind.
What did she see in you?
What did I see in you?

What was her name?
Surely I remember that.
It was this name who caused the break up heard round the neighborhood.
She with her long, sun kissed-hair
(mine is short and black)
And her skin is bronze like a native Brazilian  
(I am translucent, save for my many freckles)

Come on, you know it.
But then my food came.
And then it didn't matter anymore.

Remember that time
at the beach.
You were the first one
with your clothes off.
I think you were already
a little drunk
but you would have
stripped down
regardless.
You never had anything to hide.

Because of you
I had the strength to stand
bare-breasted and unafraid
to all of the Atlantic Ocean
and sing about sunshine and having life.
You gave a number of people
the courage to take their shells off that night.
A bunch of naked hippies on the beach
like a flock of seagulls with a little
more heart.
We thought we could change
the world back then,
and I guess we still can.

One of my favorite
pastimes back when
Spring was Spring,
and not a death sentence
of epic proportions,
was tying a piece of string
to a Junebug's leg.
The hardest part was getting
the restless creature to lie on
its back long enough to
slide the miniature noose
around him in such a way
that when you let go
he would fly around
like Bonnie Blue Butler's
show pony as far as you
allowed his string to take him.

I feel like a Junebug lately.
The process of looping that noose
around my leg has left me
weary and ready for a rest.
My ankle has third degree rope burns
and my wings are getting tired
of flying in exhausting circles.
The child at the end of my rope
is ignorantly unaware of her
imprisonment of my principles.
Or perhaps she knows what she's
been doing all along
and just doesn't have
the heart, guts or brains
to cut the string and let me fly
like the shiny little
Junebug I was born to be.