You are here:
Try here too, maybe:
For those who are accustomed to looking for “taglines”:
For now, we are the meaning makers.
Who can blame us for defending our own obscurities?
Lessons from Lesser Loves
I trained her in what to expect
which grew into comfy routines.
And routines became character,
sound, instinctive ways, unscreened.
By acting toward her, with her, for her -
oblivious to subtle stress -
I instilled a sense of order,
safety, even righteousness.
Train out of me what I became
from puppy efforts, premature:
my expectations in Your name:
Routine became my caricature.
You can't fix a zombie with makeup
or by making sure it's well-fed.
Wealth redistributions,
Reformed institutions:
The walking dead still remain dead.
A zombie will get what it asks for,
then go on demanding in swarms.
It craves acquiescence.
Your blood is it’s essence,
and comes in a number of forms.
You can't fix a zombie by paying
for “Give me my rights” show and tell.
Exploit an election?
That's no resurrection.
Just wanderers under the spell
of a garden hose pointed toward hell.
You can’t fix your car at the car wash,
no matter what soap it provides,
nor gaze at the sky
with ordure in your eye.
(You’ve grown use to darkness, besides.)
And you can't fix a zombie with makeup.
That’s not where the deadness resides.
She just doesn’t care
who pets her, or where.
On this spot or there –
she just doesn’t care.
The neck or the chin
somewhere in Berlin.
A cathedral in Paris,
outside, on the terrace.
There, under the collar
where itches are smaller,
Or along her whole back
near a mosque in Iraq.
On top of the head
in the sheets on the bed,
Or the base of the tail
on the Oregon Trail
Where it’s stiff in her muscles
while driving to Brussels,
or down deep in the drawer
where she likes to explore.
Just watch claw or tooth
in the telephone booth.
She can get bloody rough
when she’s had quite enough.