I was but a child
desperately trying
to teach a child
to be a child.

I fed love
memories
until it became habit
and habit I fed
memories
until memories came apart
now I feed my own soul
and revel in the thought
that my soul
is not something
any man could keep

Banjos and vagabond songs
these are your heroes
I don't think you're wrong
but Neil Young doesn't know ****
about the weight of a heart of gold
I wish I could see it all
in that backwards view
of a freight train flying by
and I wouldn't mind
you by my side
like Janis and her romanticized McGee
but I've never been anywhere
longer than a few days
worth mentioning and I'm
covered in spider bites
from the dust and courage
of un-making my bed again
the ache of a blue-collar soul
song never caressed my ear the wrong way
I've got vagabond dreams
but too much of a rebel soul to go
with the flow of whiskey rivers
where flasks don't refill
I meant well but the dog bit back
too bad I still have trouble with
feral friends not ready for saving
cities build you up or down
you're either made
a liar or an idealist
always a cynic either way
you've been thinking
but I've been Janis too long
to think I might have won
I'm starting to believe a heart
of gold needs love
a little tarnished but Neil Young
was wrong
it's the expressions you give
not the mining you did
that remind me
these stale-dust spider bites
don't make a heart any
less gold.

My heritage is martyrdom and I was raised in the shadow of its strict religion
Empathy has moved mountains
so have I
for those who could not
--would not--
move their own
A child of silent strength
mine is a lineage of
survivors of the ones they love
We are a calm
fighting breed
whose cause is never their own
and of them
I am proud as I could ever be
I've yet to see
dynamite
that could as
gracefully
move mountains
as my maternal ancestors taught me
They have bred me to be
a Joan of the Dark
Valley-born babes
find their way
to me
because they know
long
I will stand by while they face the mountain
casting shadows across their face
My blood is the roots of palm trees
weathering the scars of winds and earth-born quakes
They have served many well
in times of harsh valley winters and flooded springs
But I've found
my roots have yet
to serve me
I'm a martyr by instinct
and there has yet to be a cause
that's lost on me
My blood burns at the thought
but its taken me
this long
to find
all martyrs burn for troubles that know them only by name
I have mountains of
my own
and I would not ask
anything
past my own palm leaves
to brave their shadows
I know the trouble with the troubled
is all too often that they cast their own shadows
and prefer to be that way
Heretic of a dying religion
I've cast enough stones on the behalf of babes
Now I think
I'll keep my bricks
and build my own set of stairs
up
out of these shadows
and into my own hard-earned
sunlight

My mind is clear
finally
for the first time
in a long time
and I see the light
break on the rim
of the crystalline
glass I mistakenly
thought I had to keep
sheltered
to keep my happiness
unbroken.

Listening to
cowboy songs
I'm wishing I could
dance
along the horizon
like a Pale Rider
in the moment before
he followed the
setting
sun but all that's
left of my
nameless
grit and grandeur are
whispers
through dry weeds
and the echo of an
ache
in the tune
of wild wanderers
confined
to a song played on repeat.

I was always weary.

There is an ache
in the spaces inside my bones
that makes me sure
I am only a bird
kept from flight by the
weight
I bear.

My hands and lips are
rough
like his never were
and he called them
beautiful when he held them
but I knew better than to trust anyone
who hadn't felt enough
pain to nurse a callous.

So call me callous
I am
but all too often I wonder
what good
my wisdom did me
in my proud youth.

Trees and vines
with branches wide and winding
are the closest to kin I dared
find when mine were far from sight
and I was always afraid
that meant my
roots
were built for nothing
but standing strong.

But I know better
now
that I've ripped
those delicate things free.

I don't think you'll believe
me
but I swear
I'm closer to a bird
than I've ever been and I'm
further from flight
than I thought
I'd ever be.

I've got a bitter
taste
in my lips
and it feels like
acid
under my tongue.
I'm listening
to the Lioness
but there's not
enough
smoke and
whiskey in her
breath
to soothe
me
and there's not
enough grit
in my heart
to make me
think
I'm worthy
of my own.
Here's my chance
to let him fly
but so long as I've got
hope
as strong as I've
always
had, I'm not
likely to
try.