A little man with a fake look
ing beard zips in to miss
pronounce the truth. lisps
Seth in french canadian under
tones. the accordian plays in the back
ground. wet foam washes down
stream. poutine covered in brown
gravy is served. “Apollo doesn’t go
to the moon without
my pa, he helped weld them giant rockets
ya know the ones that lifted them fellas
to the stars?” Old men shake
their heads, it’s a story
line they’ve heard too many times be
fore. the sunset’s a ways back now
the beer goes down smooth. They laugh
Seth loudest of all be
cause the little man pays
for realer than his beard looks.

i will tell you about genetics:
a cousin shares jeans
sometimes blue
eyes, sometimes a t-shirt
if it’s left at grandma’s house

second cousin wants to share jeans
but at that point, they’re ripped
& threadbare. t-shirts still get shared
but only if Aunt Trudy visits for tea & zucchini bread.

a third cousin refuses to share
jeans or anything else. no one really cares
at most, a t-shirt insulting your mother is worn
occasionally, & Aunt Trudy’ll tell you
everything she gave them for Christmas.

weekend eyes growl, wade out to take her
mouth. her lips. to steal away her breath
to drown with her, deep and painlessly
beneath the burning ache of sunlight
through the tall grasses and under lilies.
Stones skipped, ripples like heart beats,
a long pause in a lost moment, evening eyes
pucker out the obscure sighs that allude to her
mouth. a breath returned. she descends into
a sigh. another sigh. then a frog leaps
through the rings into the cool murk
of loud wishes. The unrevealed menace
of youth. her red lips twist again
as she smiles. weakened eyes beg
for her. only her. the breeze sighs.

thus changes every smile to a wan cool thing
and every tune to something else I dare not sing

words unsaid but etched in stone
thus always, love and love alone

thus transmogrify from man to beast
that which thinks and knows the least

words on walls around a soul
thus always man is never whole

thus changes every sign to hot desire
and every poem to kindling for a fire

words unsaid, forgotten in the haze
and every tune means less as it plays

thus transmogrify from beast to man
the knows and thinks and has no plan

the moon will come tonight
and stars like raindrops falling up
a million voices will rejoice
as the waves reveal that hope was enough

tomorrow, sunrise will write the story
of love on perfect puddles
a million ripples will share
the dreams of every heart

the moon, she comes tonight
in a silver dress, bejeweled and alight
with the honesty of what has been
and knowledge now
we are all right.

Oh madness by the waning sun
i twist about the haze of tall grass
suspecting, darling, you may be the one
with Whitman’s grizzled ass

Oh joy, beneath the frigid moon
I am the statue that always lies
beside the river with a silent tune
that is every star’s sweet sighs

We are the dance, the waltz that grates
flesh to dust, and dust to stone
We are the music, the crescendo of hates
balled up with lost trust until we’re alone

If every day becomes the apathetic rage
perhaps it best we stay inside love’s cage?

Oh madness, thy name is Michael.
Thy sword, held high above thy head,
speaks the tale of war and the wrath of God.

Oh Joy, thy name is Charon,
captain of the boat
knower of the currents
voiceless beggar for the last gold coin.

my ancestors do not see
or hear, or taste, or dream,
they speak in tawdry accusations

as dawn bends around a crow’s wing
they remember smiles,
and hate me even more.

great-grandfather, please
let the new days ring
from the steeples

I can only beg, here
where the spirits sneer
at the endless nothing.

Great-grandmother it is me
the one you loved
though you never kissed my forehead

please, forgive me
your name is safe
here in my heart.

my ancestors ache for the peaceful thickets
for the cool dusk
and the hymns of fireflies

Great-great-grandfather
please, I mean well.
I mean well.

My ancestors accuse me of worse than hate
they snicker at loves
that never were.

Oh God, save me.
I am less than nothing.
less than nothing…

blessed be the womb
and the sword
the distance between flesh
the beloved gender that eeks between understandings

blessed be the myth
and the mystery, the dead and the scarred
and those too scared to pray.

blessed be the born
and the unborn, the lie
and the truth, the every touch
even those unmade.

oh, Gender, I sing of thee
my beloved one, my only one
myself and thee.

Thy name is Terra,
but I shall call thee Fred.

Fred, sipper of malt
cackler of long tales and turtle eggs

Loose the voice that knows the true name
of God & Goddess

so that we might sleep
beneath a kinder star

Fred, my friend, my always-friend
becoming thee
allow the world to know
the cool waters
still running clear
and the kindness of a mountain in summer.

Thy name is Terra,
but I do call thee, Fred.

My brother,
my sister,
my father, My mother my everything
oh Terra, be mine
still
and peaceful
when the moon is born
again.