Day 39 – The Other Side

It’s so obvious
you can’t stand it:
you’re on the winning side
of history.

How could anybody not see
that simple logic?

They must be bad,
must be evil,
must be enemies of virtue

to want the kind of world
you don’t want.

So you’ll yell,
you might fight,
you could spend your whole life
on a cause you know is righteous
and you’ll never win.

No one will.
But at least they won’t,
either.

Day 11 – Raw

I am one big sweaty dude
fighting another.

I am the one with the best mic skills,
and the other guy’s my boss
or the establishment
or life.

I don’t always win
but that’s the way it goes.
I don’t always win
but that’s okay

because sometimes,
for once,
I do

and it’s a sweetness
all mine.

Day 3 – Becky with the Bank Account

Becky with the bank account
oversees the salt mines,
revving up production
for another fiscal year.

Never ventured down there
but she’s bought a ‘lotta Morton
and she’s born to make the rules
when there’s money on the line.

Becky’s got a hard job
telling all the families
the government’s against them
so they gotta labor more.

But Becky is their saint
’cause she’s the only honest one
who, while sitting on her fortune,
tells the truth and beats them on.

Who would ever stand up to Becky?
The rats!
The ones who have no hope
of getting out of Becky’s mines.

But Becky with the bank account
plays a hard ball
and if the rats don’t fight
she’ll be Queen of them all.

Year 2: Day 143 – Sea Salt Bath

Before this battle
I’m taking a gorgeous sea salt bath
in farewell
to luxury.

A stranger passed through town this week,
he said there’s a war,
and I’ve known.

Salt tears dilute
and make me one with the sea,
a last baptism to bless
the road.

All the world of ease,
crystallized in memory,
poured, dissolved
to forgive me
for this town.

It’s gonna get messy
from here but
I can’t stay here,
I can’t stay.

The bathwater cold
and dead already and
I can’t stay here,
I can’t stay.

Year 2: Day 120 – The Owner

There’s always somebody falling asleep, no matter what time of day.
The kids around here go around the clock, getting paper, making bank, and such.
The owner will bust you up if you get caught sleeping, if you get caught taking a nap,
so they like to wear long-billed caps and prop up books and gulp espresso.

There’s always somebody making a scene, causing a ruckus outside.
The kids around here absorb drama along with their Vitamin D, with their air.
The owner will throw you out flat if you start any trouble, if you pick a fight,
so they like to take out their aggression on bottles of beer in the parking lot.

There’s always somebody showing off with whatever talent they got.
The kids around here are so special, so filled with angst about their craft.
The owner will hand you a mic or throw your art on the wall but he doesn’t care
so they like to pretend he’s got taste, that he’s some kinda critic, that it’s a reward.

There’s always somebody grinning behind the counter, come what may.
The kids around here drive themselves berserk, so caught up in all their wheels.
The owner will sit in a booth and drink coffee and chat a while with you
so they like to pretend he’s harmless, that he’s not the only sane one here.

Year 2: Day 71 – Post-It Note

I dream sometimes of a post-it note:
“Hey girl. I’m sorry. You win.”

And then I write, “Oh hey.
Didn’t even notice you’re still alive.
I’m sorry, too. We both win.”

And I tear it up in a hundred bits
and I blow it outta town.

OR I send it with a bluebird
straight to you
and both our hearts grow
three sizes that day.

But hey, come on,
I said it was a dream.
Hearts grow around the holes

and they can grow three sizes anyway
just accepting the way things are.

Day 315 – Crawl If I Have To

It’s the attitude that saves a man
from lying down and dying,
saves a heart from ceasing,
saves a soul from fading,

that I would rather hurt than quit,
will ache before I’ll stop.

It’s the knowledge of our particular wounds,
the throbbing mess we face, eyes wide,
that proclaims for us “it is not in vain,”
and powers us further on.

I know where my bruises come from.
I know what they’ll always be.

I know that this knotted sore in my chest
will not heal, and I do not try.

But I will crawl if I have to,
in order that I will one day run
leaving a trail of blood, if that may be.