The Martyr, the Moon and the Nameless Rose
A Prayer to Taylor Swift on Independence Weekend 2015
Smile upon me son of woman.
You are a man to me.
Mind not the needs of the deep
To eschew from the heart
Hardness needed to hold up its kindest chambers.
If you listen to your blood orrate,
You will hear the spaces between cells
Punctuate the equilibrium of drumming drones,
War on women raged
By spineless mutants who will be the new men,
Stupor driven punch drunk abusers of powerful dreams
That what regularly bleeds must be wounded, and
That all wombs are wounds.
Bled to heights of such grave expressions
That music pales before their catafalque,
Their altar a chamber choir who sounds like a soloist to the world
And a symphony to me, but there are
No instruments, only heady voices so close to unison
That to call the voices many is
To sound mad and be right.
Rereading the blues
As if the spirit could be taught to invent
Rather than be invented to teach black from right,
The lack of blood may yet leave my fire
Pale in piney crackles,
Blood boiling out of ire in the land of the brave because the free have no home.
Roll on, stone of shame below my daughter’s timid steps
First and lost lastly by the mind,
The soul having forgone such reasons when there was still truth.
She might take the elevator up to the big magnifying glass of the sky,
That inverted makes us see how big we are as the stories fall.
They were beneath her anyway.
You are the difference between gifts and grace.
I deserve neither and keep getting it all,
Complaints about abundance falling before the harvest
With thanks stolen from silence,
The closest my gated assets get to the grateful recovery
Known best by those narcissistic enough to feel
God’s love as anything deserved enough to be real.
The world is the endless cheese of the moon
Its teeth being pictured forever,
Its gift the craters that tell stories of extinction with happy endings for the chosen son of woman
Too honest not to commit suicide
In the name of the martyr, the moon, and the nameless rose.