i used
to hate
god's face
until i
saw it
reflected
in a puddle

there have
always been
conservative extremists,
except now
they have
the means
to destroy
the entire world,
and ruin all
that they
have worked
so hard
to preserve --
yesterday
I saw a
child pick  
a flower
and eat it.

the poet
must label
the world
in a way
most people
would choose
not to

(fear
drives
the heart
of man
but love
crashes the car
for the
insurance
money)

how?
how do you ****?
how, when the blade
or gun or blunt object
is fresh in your hand
gripping and perspiring angst
through palms and fingertips,
how do you come down
on flesh and muscle and tendons
blood breath and pulse
hopes loves and dreams
hates dispositions and fear,
crippling fear,
minuscule frets and
fleeting concerns?
how?
how do you end a life?
how, in you darkest hour
of pain and anger and hopeless suffering
of debilitating sorrow and absolute hate
how do you destroy
what was
what is
what could have been
what you did not create
what is not yours to disassemble?
god is not a person or a presence
but a sense of knowing
that you will never know
how

I have cursed
my brain
so many times
now that it
ignores me
and I it,
though sometimes
we come out
of our rooms
and awkwardly
interact

I gave some
college students
a poem about dignity,
I said they wouldn't like it;
they put it on a wall
in the cafeteria
and gave me an award,
"ok," I said,
"I can take a joke."