the shape changes
depending upon
perspective;
from the bottom,
an oak leaf,
from one side a butterfly,
from the other a fist.
they have pictures
in color and in sepia
which speak to them
with different interpretations.
one sees a scar,
one sees growth.
they all agree
     it's a part of me
     it doesn't belong to me
     it came from they don't know where.
it's been cut
it's been shot
it's been exposed to radiation
it's been poisoned
it will not die

aha!
rasputin lives in my right lung!

~for lovejunkie, who loved this poem best~

so many reasons,
so many stones
yet unturned,
for each poem
a season,
for every season,
a given reason

eyes, dimmer,
hearing, harder,
memories, ha,
disappear as fast as
footsteps upon
my island beach

this then
my log,
of places momentarily visited,
capturing the of,
of me,
the exactitude of
where, when and what
I felt

what felled me,
the long and lat,
of the attitudes
of breeze and currents,
the happenstance that carries
a desperate soul
eager and afraid
to remember

"how fragile we are"

so memorized records here,
for his storage and his places,
both filled and unfulfilled,

poems, nothing more,
flawed each,
product of a flawed man,
here, for all to see,
most of all,
for the man,
to see himself
when the eyes of his mind
at last be shuttered

1) - My Life as a Disabled Gay Black Woman

I choose my food
based on personal preference.
I enjoy preparing
and eating it.

I set my home up
in a manner I find agreeable.
I find my partner
rapturous and infuriating
in almost equal measure.

I would lay down my life
for my children
and I fear the world
on their behalf.

I endure
and enjoy
a particular set of experiences
which will never be repeated
but can be broadly understood
by anyone
with a passable degree of empathy.

I speak for no-one
but myself.
I am more involved
with the here and now
than I am
with centuries
of cultural history.

I modify my behaviour
based on the company I am in
and there are aspects of my life
which are no-one's business
but my own.


2) My Life as an Able-Bodied Heterosexual White Man

See above.

There's a commotion
on the top deck of the bus.
Lost in thought
I take a moment to register
as an old gent stands up and says,
"Does anybody ken that wee boy?"

I look to the street below,
and there you are,
proud, red-faced and beaming.
You'd caught up with the bus
on your scooter
just to wave me away
one last time

Your grin has lit
every face around me
as you catch my eye, delighted.
Brimming
with a simple love
I wave back
and we pull away.

The bus may leave you behind
but I carry you with me
through streets all bright
with your presence.