Spirituality

There is the power of prayer.
The power of silence.
The power of beavers.
Large, menacing beavers.

You forgot that one.

no pity

Embezzle the universe,
steal everything it has of worth,
suck the juices from the rind,
make love to its ghosts
then the friends of those ghosts
and so on to infinity.
Stay up all night
stealing power and stealing feeling.
Leave nothing on your plate.
When the monsters in white everything
finally come for you (and they will)
be broke and exhausted
from a recent orgasm, dance, poem, wave, whatever,
some sort of explosion, anyway.
When they try to put you in a wheelchair,
throw it off the cliff into the ocean
and crawl to the nearest fix
of everything at once.
Don’t listen to your grandmother
who died rich and begging
others to tell her that her life was good.
If you don’t know, if you have to ask others,
it clearly wasn’t.
Though she looked regal in her coffin,
the white hair and sparkling jewels,
she was like the sixteen-year-old who took pills
and vanished before she was formed,
all the wild, sparkling nights ahead
trapped in the sinking stone of her body.
It doesn’t matter how many years that woman lived.
She was the same as the young girl
who swallowed the pills out of fear.
Take no prisoners in this life,
and especially not yourself.

Sides

Let the poem be organic images. Let the poem
hide its words from itself. A thunderstorm
turns around our house, goes by the window
twice. Then again. It seems to be in love
with the cat’s fear. Things fill up with our
crazy intentions. Eventually, you notice
language is doing the same thing. These
crazy drive-bys it does. And we never
did a thing to it, except maybe encroach
by accident on its alien turf. You can’t
even walk down its street without
taking someone’s side, unawares.