scars are love and memory from the world
which (though oft accused of indifference)
does care enough to pierce the skin

not the broken glass
not the rusty nail
not the bedspring from an old mattress
or the handsaw that slipped
or the edge of the coffee table to a wobbly toddler
not the knife
or scissors
too blunt at first - but try, try again

not the careless indifference of others
made manifest in flesh

or the million failures headaches heartaches
sicknesses
tears

no, pain never forgotten is formed
on brain and skin

just like cheeks flushed, heart pounding, sweat-dripping
you make your move and are checkmated by a far
more skilled opponent-- it doesn't take much

feel something if you try
feel alive and awake and know

that somebody loves you, and remembers
just like your skin.

Groups of two are called a pair
and sometimes a couple, and in verse a couplet

Two is a beautiful number full of symmetry
And the wholeness of love

One by itself and plus one is the magical
connection of friendship

Addition makes for strange bedfellows and unwelcome crowds;
let’s just leave us alone together

Even is fair and fair is better said twice
for thrice would just be too much (overkill)

But two is not too of anything; it is
the warmth of company and the smile of one child

The most important things are twofold with us
and we must have one heart because we need another’s too

For balance, the dual strains but holds, sustains
yin pulls yang and tight embrace joins old and new

Division is eternally sad but easier to withstand if
there’s no remainder and you have someone else there

And finally two can multiply if they work hand in hand
to avoid the sting of desperate isolation

You can’t play paddy cake by yourself but it’s ok to try
You have two hands and along comes a partner

so much depends
upon

an elderly Jewish
woman

possessing an acid
wit

and having survived
cancer

I red them all, from dawn til dusk
They blue me still with little fuss
Then greying soon we stole away
Until night fell; we oranged all day!
But purpling fervor came too soon
And midnight blackened afternoon
Now all that’s left is what we’ve greened
We’re ever yellowing, or so it seems.

White
House gates
though strong cannot
hold back three million
people.

Rome
burned bright,
brilliant light ceded,
smoldering ruins bid Earth
breathe.

Oh heroes of our youths, drawn in
splendid colors and panels or flying across
screens for sake of justice, you stars
of infinity and all realities sparing us
from the scourge of boredom while you
saved the day with ease, right vs wrong
clear as the cerulean sky, for you we pine!

Your winsome smiles soothed housewives
and maidens and doe-eyed youngsters
even as your capes became faded
and tattered and no longer were draped
over bedposts of intrepid lady reporters
willing to overlook, like we all did,
the familiarity of your unspectacled faces!

Your somber tongues gravely implored
us to redeem our grimy criminal cities,
lighting our fervor by spotlight against
darkest sky and even in the absence
of grappling hooks or alone with only
the latest fashionable belt, with no
hot young bird in the passenger seat
of your improbable nocturnal sports cars!

Your responsibilities and power came
all woven together, kept you from looking
out of any of your eyes the wrong way
either up or upside down, holding
the universe together with chivalry
and astute entomological acrobatics!

Your master kicks rivaled any other
rat or amphibian, and it was pure art
how you would karate chop through
our mutated melancholy, radical dudes
freeing us in every dimension
from maniacal brains and threats
of shredding our dignity like pizza cheese!

Your ecology was right as rain,
bio-available when we'd ring you up
and always giving back the power after
cleaning up some toxic mess, blowing
our adolescent minds as you flew about
kicking *** and spouting corny puns
long before oddly-dyed hair was trendy
and when Earth was a few degrees cooler!

We mourn you now more than ever,
remembering you with longing
as true villains appear, their green rocks
growing heavier and more radioactive,
their twisted jokes severing us
from one another, spewing venom,
bidding us conquer this land
and scorching the world for spite.

We mourn you now, our heroes, gone
but not forgotten and barely evoking
this nostalgic sense that you never left,
summoning within us the courage
to claim our inheritance, to finally discover
those ancient powers you've bequeathed;
to finally step up and save the world.

First
skyline sight
erases gloomy weeks
bidding broken voice sing
Hallelujah

Are you happy, Daisy
with your voice all full of money
and your golden locks blowing?
Do you hide your face
embarrassed by Tom's racist harangues
while seeking comfort in the embrace
of your careless, noble friends?
Have you ever seen shirts
as nice as these or suits so pink
and glimmering of tea cakes
and novelty on sweltering Manhattan
gilded ash-worn evenings?
Are you happy now sauntering
through inconsequence adrift in moonlight
and forgetful of your maiden promises
as the air sweeps over that fragile
crown and you swerve drunkenly
about lane to lane letting me
face the consequences worrying
only about you?
The inebriation is mine alone to bear.
That's all I want for you,
the dignified Mrs. Buchanan—
as a moth I fly toward green flame,
enamored—remembering your smile
& eyes as they were!
My heart's last beats are for you,
and I just want to know you're happy
as the transparent water that drowns me
warms and grows turbid like America
and my selfish love.

No milquetoast kids dare summit jungle gyms
nor dream from monkey bars suspended
o’er perilous mulches, heads filled by the sanguine
rush of juvenile enthusiasm for garden hoses
bruised knees and peanut butter sandwiches;

Only august lad or lass may escape those sandboxes
to tumble into the cavernous ball pit of emancipation,
last dino bones dug up and whirling whispers
lost soon as spoken across merry-go-round envisioning
fantastic autumn nights that promised monsters

Forsaken mud pies dry and crack, no more edible
with juice box than without, hopscotching into
sportsball cartoon boom box jumprope Sunday songs
of Jesus midwest bedtime prayers, sincerest supplication
application for wellness heaven and bully protection

We seesaw through scraps of nostalgia, frolic
into slip-sliding wet hot summer drops to mask
messy tears, swimming defiantly away from repentance
but begging a little help from God to keep the rusty
swing set chains from breaking now as we push higher

Sure, it takes some work to build a playground right,
and what sign do we have it's safely been constructed?