Definition Truth

v.t.  1.  subjective;

constant changing 2. human

abstraction~abstraksie~

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A Poem to my Boys

I’m sorry my dearest

ones, that I could

 

not make this world better

for you.  You have to understand

 

as soon as any dance is learned the music

tugs to a different tide sometimes.  There are

 

not enough laments written to show you

how sorry I am that I am just one.  I sacrificed

parts of my soul, so maybe you could have it

 

better than I.  You did have it better than I,

and I would do it all again, every detail you are better

 

off not knowing, was worth

the good men who I made.

Memories of South Africa: I Couldn’t Trust the White Guy

Patrick was the white name

given to the first friend I made

in South Africa. I feel somewhat ashamed

 

I can’t remember or begin to pronounce

his Zulu name. My mouth simply could

not form the sounds of his actual

 

name. He laughed at how much I kept

practicing his name, over, over, over

again trying hard to get it right. I stayed up

 

late with him just talking about our own

lives, what struggles we each faced. We shared

tears together. I trusted him. Later, I was told

 

by a Brit, I needed to stay with my color, AIDS

was given to South Africa as a gift. He warned me

that anyone lesser my skin tone was

 

especially dangerous. For a woman of my blonde

hair, my fair skin, he told me I was most at risk. He tried

to scare me with rape statistics (which I knew, but he

 

rambled on not letting me speak). The Brit telling me this

owned what he called a “Wild Game Safari.” I went to

the “Safari” with him to see that it was

 

nothing more than great animals in tiny

cages. I couldn’t get away from him fast

enough. I felt dirty even sharing

 

handshakes with the likes of that man. That

was the first time in my life I met a human being

who physically repulsed me just for being who he was.

You: A Tour of My Landscape

I was born to weave my

home with thank you very much.

 

We have everything! Most people just

drink poison around here. First stop is Misery

 

Bay. The Bay of Red Glistening

Water remembered as a lie we routinely tell

 

ourselves about War that supposedly

ended and called 1812.  The ever perverted t-

Ruth of Lake Erie’s recorded history

twists the narrative.  I will tell you about the War

of some year the collective narrative chose

 

to remember. How the City has lied

 

about the battle to the city for as long as I

know… our city’s hero is Oliver

Hazard

Perry… Commander of the fleet

in the Battle of Lake Erie, or some shit

like that… then I will tell you the truth

 

from the books of our history the ones

no one takes the time to read. The insanity of “Don’t

 

Give Up the Ship” when most people

don’t even know the Flagship Niagara

 

wasn’t even Perry’s ship! The Lawrence was. The dude

we call heroic jumped that sinking

ship commandeering Jessie

 

Elliot’s Flagship Niagara, but no one knows

who Jessie Elliot is.  Erie is the City of silenced voices.

 

We still have Elliot’s ship!  That will give you

a sense how sick

my city is. Then I will take you to the Bay-

 

front on foot so you can see how the wealthy stole

the sunset from us.  I would show you my

 

beach.  You will understand what toxic

algae blooms are.  You will see it is toxic

 

You want arts, I will show you where

to go. I will apologize too few

 

in the community are awoke. I get scrappy

at willful ignorance.  Hence the hermit crab’s

 

nature. I would take you out to the snow-belt,

where the maple farms are to show you how the great

 

sugar maples are all dying, infested

by Japanese Longhorn beetles—worst invasive import

 

along with zebra mussels that choke the water

lines, while the coke

 

plants just pays more

in fines.  I’d show you

all of the decaying

traditions of the land

I would walk you

through my

neighborhood, show you all

the Heroin

dens

around my house. Always disdainful

beautifully waving goodbye, while I tell you:

Get off the fucking ship, we need the wood for fire!

City Named for Her Fresh Gem Water

Hear what the Water

Keepers say. To survive,

 

the water

must be protected.

The Great Lakes

 

provide 21% of the world’s

 

surface fresh water. You can just look

at the cities surrounding them

to see how sick the water is.  From Flint

 

to the shallow Lake Erie’s branching, and her

iris burning sunset, the Lake Effect is deadly.

Woman Like a Tree

Sit there. Examine all

the damage extended to you

by men, the fucking

 

Patriarchy.  All of your scars

covered in myths

about fruit trees and serpents.  Feel

 

all the resent for the constant

narrative of your gender. The lesser

sex. The sexless woman. Wounds on her

 

knees from tripping up every step.

This Was Not a Candle Light Vigil

disdainfulbeauty

There were people from all over the world
there to protest at the Summit. I was

attending a lecture given by Vandana Shiva
about the crisis of water

in the 21st century. What she was saying was important,
and I was so thankful to hear what she was saying. Drums

were heard in the corridor outside the lecture hall. They kept
getting louder. All of the double doors of the room burst open

at the same time. People streamed in all the aisles. They all had red
shirts on holding candles and making gun shapes

with their hands. They were singing freedom songs
of Anti-Apartheid. My skin is white. I was young and naïve. At first,

I thought they knew I was
on the side of thoughtful and compassionate, but they didn’t notice

me at all. Everything is collateral damage to the cause. A riot
broke out. Outside the building…

View original post 54 more words

Biography of Children in Illegal Images

This is generic, so could     not

            possibly be

about love.  Maybe, I like

being that terrifying light

everyone falls for, even if those           fleeting

 

moments are only present

rarely.  Even if those moments

make the steel of my work

boots unusable.  Still,

my own light frightens me—

 

given how men become deranged

at the simple sight of my

 

body. Something

to conquer.  Defeat is

never a gift.  Only aggressors win

the right to narrative. Not I.  I

 

become just a thing

 

to pass around.  I’ve met

only one man who can even guess

the brittles which scrub so hard

my skin serrates in lines of red

from my feet to head

while I weep. When I think of you

never seeing

the light I found in the dead

 

museum locked deep inside

where no one can ever go

          except me, I know the world

is wrong. Light can radiate

despite fear     of        falling.   

                    The same

falling is felt when you

 

pulled down some crimson 

brick,

the gray

grainy mortar 

just enough

 

to let me shine 

brightest. Longed 

            for understanding—never

wished for, because I have never

met a man who didn’t 

want to

possess me

in some way—is an accident of the mind’s

failing.  You must 

stay alive for me.