Wisps
Of words
Drift down slowly as
She sits,
Invisible and forgotten.
Huddled,
As the world caves down on her.

Even though no one notices her,
They all point,
Stare,
And scorn.

An outcast,
Not knowing the reason why
They talk about how
"Dangerous"
She is.

Rumors and gossip spread like wildfire,
Burning her the worst,
Third degree burns to the soul.

They never realized how
Close to the edge
They pushed,
Until she jumped,
And put out the fire forever.

When is a word of power
Holding the keys to time
Unlocking doors to limitless wealth
Amassed in the houses of centuries
Our future is naught without us
We are naught without our past
We are not without our past
Calamity follows the unbelieving
Those current keepers
Blinded by trend
Those content to exist on a page
Without ever reading the book
Memory is rite
Remembering is prayer
We are disjointed from our God
In a life purely contemporary
We forget more than we are living
Writhing in the deficit
Slaved to the moment
And the evils of its quarantine
History is sacred
To be held with gentle hands
Revered and cherished
For its honesty

curled up in a corner
of a room you will find me
bent
but not broken and spent
but not spoken with spokes of the bicycle
wheel that broke off and
rolled through the liberation
gate staking
my face-plates,
now, folks,
I have warned you
I am horned and with virtue,
alone but not lonely
I'm a circus clown's pony with
plots of freak mutiny,
a ship-wrecked bronze bust of political impunity
I am star-gazing through blazes of thin paper, puny
little pinners pressed tightly by blazer pocket roomies.
I'm a goonie, a goblin and a masked, hooded robin robbing rich people's goblets of every droplet
and although I move slow I will not
ever stop it
so I sew
on the buttons after I do the popping while Millers mill about
doing holiday shopping
how sloppy
our rituals all empty and flopping
about in the wind like a limp rubber topping for
bottles of formulas filled up with tube-fed
federally-regulated hormonally-muted
undead
living piglets with noses as red as
our shred
of human dignity left after all that
we've spent.
I'm the leftovers left under every park bench.
I'm a snarling, glad monster with the truest intent
for every breath
to be free.
like my fangs and my
fur all curled up in a
corner of a room you'll find me.

Children imitating cormorants
are even more wonderful
than cormorants.

Bring me your pain;
the hollow aching of your tired heart and the scars that run deep down to your bones.

Bring me your sorrow;
the loneliness that anchors you,
the hopelessness that has built its way into your core.

Bring me your suffering;
the silent storm that crushes you,
the infinite emptiness that consumes you.

Bring me your brokenness,
the sharp and scattered pieces of your dismantled self.


Come to me in fragments,
and let me love you whole again.