The sting of hot tears

pierces the jadedness

shielding my eyes

from the intricacies

of all these tragedies

as feeling 

finally bubbles over the edge 

of my heavy cup.

Too many people have died this year.

No explanation can encompass this wrongness.

There are no words for the depths of this despair.

But we will see millions on our screens:

to proliferate opinions,

manufacture complacency, 

ensure continuing consumption,

and rage against whilst perpetuating the machine.

 

I am weary of reasons.

Mind has ruled long enough.

Anything is justifiable,

twistable, edible,

ostensibly inevitable

when given the proper spin.

“No more ‘why’.”

calls this aching heart,

finally breathed into enough

for shock and disbelief

of humanity’s capacity for inhumanity

to melt into sadness.

Perhaps instead we grieve.

Grieve everything:

the lives of the victims, 

the lost genius of the perpetrators

twisted by the insanity

of the ones who pay for guns

to wreak the havoc on the world

they will not look at in themselves;

grieve the viscous dystopia we find ourselves in

powered by the fear that hides 

under every act of hatred.

 

And when enough tears have fallen, 

like lava rising from the unrestable depths

to slowly and steadily transmute everything in its wake,

the heat of feeling beyond reasoning 

will burn through our comfortable numbness.

Maybe we can start 

to put our words

and our money 

and our actions

where our hearts live.

And “why” will become the rallying cry 

of hands planting seeds

of love made visible through lives indivisible,

and the memory that tears can also be of joy.

 

{Listen to this poem here}

Holding the Hunger like an old friend.

An old beautiful, dangerous, intimate friend.

A lover who knows this body and heart so well.

so well.

A lover who knows how to play 

every

inch

of my psychosomatic experience

until I lose myself in his embrace.

Because I invited him in,

taught him the curves and waves of my desire.

Showed him where I keep my heart.

Thinking he would guide me home.

But now I know his motives are so ulterior, 

I dare not give in to this offered pleasure.

 

This ultimate seduction.

The hardest to resist is also the deadliest.

I have learned the hard way not to feed this 

Hunger,

for his devouring 

only leaves me hung over and wanting.

 

 

But there is no ending the torment.

No prison that will hold this beast.

No reigns that control it for long.

No where to run.

He knows every place I'd think to hide,

every cranny into which I would slide.

The more I seek to flee,

the more he stalks me like the prey I then make myself to be.

 

I can distract us for a moment from our deadly dance.

But then he finds a new enticement.

Carefully scratches 

at the edge of an emptiness 

that cannot be filled.

A rawness that must ever be exposed.

In desperation,

amidst prayers for absolution 

from the self-same force that gives us life,

I release every strategy.

Every clever plan and delicious fantasy.

 

I can only sit with him.

Tenderly hold this raging ache,

this numbing force,

this tumultuous yearning.

And wait for him to reveal the gift 

he has been this whole time holding.

Braving the claws.

Staring back into the hungry eyes.

Extending my open palms.

Bearing my naked chest.

And bringing him right next to my heart.

 

We breathe together, Hunger and I.

I remember all the joy his toying has brought me.

All the anguish our war has cost me.

All the lessons addiction has taught me.

The compassion this being human has wrought in me.

 

And I am fed, and I am found.

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© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry