THE FLOWERS WANT TO OVER-RUN THE WEEDS
The flowers want to over-run the weeds.
The good guys are trying to win the garden back
from the bad guys
but all things tender themselves
like loveletters and parole boards
toward the sun eventually
as everyone does their time standing up
and the light doesn’t scan their seeds for terrorists.
The whole of the earth is one passport in a global refugee camp
exiled in a space so incomprehensibly vast and unbounded
only our homelessness is at home in the solitude.
You want to root a little pennant of blood in it,
flag the pin you push through the eye of the voodoo doll
that possesses you and say mine?
I lay claim to this as my own.
The earth is still one and the same gravestone for all without revision.
Even for the undistinguished dead
who followed you blindly into your darkness
only to discover nobody’s ever truly at home
in the home of a thief.
You don’t need to make an atlas out of your skin to discover
everyone’s the spirit of water in a sack of dirt
with nine holes in it
as big as the planet
and whether you think you’re wearing
silk or a haircloth shirt,
or sunning yourself in the nude,
you’re still embodied by the earth
from the cradle to the grave
in this Rasputin of flesh in the river
and whether you’re short as a lie
or as tall as the truth
exalted in death or maligned at birth
one size fits all like the moon in everyone’s eyes
that doesn’t makes scissors of its crescents
to sever the whole cloth of the earth
into a Frankenstein of wounded flags that never heal.
You can’t reign over an empire of quicksand
and expect to be buried like a cornerstone
or steal a gift to esteem yourself a giver
when it’s as useless as a thief
putting his name on everything
in his own house of life
to keep himself from stealing what’s his
as it is to try and cut water
into its constituent elements with a knife
to separate the moon from the river,
the thought from the feeling,
the wound from healing
or people from the seven wombs of birth they flow through
like water and life and eyes and stars
through the infinite spaces
of the myriad races
entombed in every grain of earth.