turkish submission

dark presence enter

but never approach

you leave him alone

the fear of you wakes him

it's after the dream

held from scream by paralysis

malice escapes while

your memory shakes him

***

exhaust and back sweating

from imperfect pride

now a dark hour¡¯s walking:

I passed on the ride

chagrin, growing weakness.

try walking less taxing,

that way that you learned

try imagining home,

just an hour returned

try praying the sweetness

so recent discerned¡¦

it¡¯s a walk

but its more

like a spiritual question

the answer we have

only three miles

to stalk

it¡¯s his dream

but its more

like a spiritual quest

for the power

the dark spirit

to rest.

***

with hands crawling climbing

his dreams finally culminate

reaching and ripping

his body from flesh

with a fresh chill to still

his soul deeper inside

he confides the discovery:

peace beyond reach.

=

this is

God¡¯s earth before me

not three miles ahead

but here in this bed

of imperfect turf

and I am with God;

my new home is anywhere

whole at the center

since three days before

when I took his advice

against reaching and ripping

my core; this hole

into which Christ could pour.

The blindness that calls itself Justice

Here are the brothers

who murdered my Grandmother.

Here is the coat

they bought with SSI

then forgot

at her house

after they murdered my Grandmother.

Here’s the nice stuff

that they took from her house

and then sold to get clothes

the night after

they murdered my Grandmother.

Here is the family

that watches the trial

of their sons

who murdered my Grandmother.

Here is the Father

who sucks air from a tank

who lets me go first

who humbles himself down

who looks grievous as I

cause he knows

his sons murdered my Grandmother.

Here is the talk

where I eavesdrop and hear

the Dad telling his kids

they can’t afford parking

cause they got towed before

so they can’t see the trial

of their brothers

who murdered

my Grandmother.

Here is my pocket

that holds a free pass

to the parking garage

because someone murdered

my Grandmother.

Here are the families, both of them victims: one family rich, whose pain is assuaged; one family poor, who gets no parade.

Here is the blindness that calls itself justice: helping the rich, ignoring the poor, though the money thing led them to kick in her door.

Here is the moment

where I hand my free parking

to the trembling hand

of the bloodshot-eyed father

of the boys

who murdered

my Grandmother.

the girl with lollipop eyes

the girl with

lollipop-eyes,

butterfly-lashes,

cloud-top laughter

cries about

the relentlessly cruel

people

she works with.

in a silent moment,

she will reach out in conversation,

to get burned by their callousness

again and again

Why do you reach? I ask her

A wild animal, trapped,

may call to your heart,

only to lash out

when you approach.

The animal is stressed;

your approach stresses it more.

So don¡¯t reach out:

you will get hurt

and now two need help.

Stand back,

it will lick its wounds,

and later, maybe,

you can free its leg.

You can grow strong

from a distance,

but you will never heal

through compulsive compassion.

¡¦¡¦

She thanks me for the metaphor,

¡°Do I pay you at the door?¡±

Ha, ha.

¡¦¡¦

I am also a wild animal.

On the surface, I smile, give good advice.

but get too close,

and I will lash out.

Those who have loved me

have learned the price.

They all leave,

bearing the scars

of hearts

once too open.

In this way,

one wound

becomes many.

My parents¡¯ divorce

teaches heartbreak

to an entire

generation.

so be strong, protect yourself.

ignore my pleas for help.

A wolf also has puppy-dog eyes.

Let me lick my wounds.

Before you offer me lollipops.

A Job moment

I’m passing out fliers.

What is this, the 15^th day in a row?

Door to door, up at four AM.

Why aren’t I feeling any better?

Usually I feel the energy by now. Body moving. Mood improving

Today I’m getting worse.

My skin hurts.

If this is the way it is, I may have to quit.

But I can’t quit.

I have nowhere to go.

I have no purpose outside this, not yet.

I'm not strong enough yet..

I’d sit on my ass again, body not moving, trying to dream up a job that means something to me.

When I was lying at home, searching, my condition got worse. My mind got worse.

I was losing hope in the world.

I know if my hope dries up, my spirit will give up.

Like happened in New York, before I got this disease.

That’s like the path to death.

This means something to me.

If I give up on it,

I’ll get worse,

I’ll probably need that transplant.

Maybe I’ll die.

Probably.

But I can’t stay. This will kill me. 17 hour days.

I’m stressed.

My acne is so bad I can’t turn my head to check the blind spot in the car.

I’m supposed to be learning how to take care of myself.

Why the fuck does this have to be so hard?

I’m angry. Fucking Angry. Damnit, why’s it so hard!

Wait. Who am I angry at? My boss?

No, he’s here, too. Around the corner, dropping a flier on the newspaper.

Even he doesn’t like this. He’s in some pain, too.

But we need more calls. So we drop more fliers.

Otherwise, we have to shut our doors.

I agree, this has to be done.

Wait - God. That’s it. I’m pissed at God.

God gave me this disease. He gave me this situation.

He gave me this yoga, this job as a way to heal myself.

He made it this hard.

It’s no one in the world. No one to blame.

This is my life.

God made it this way.

Fuck, my skin!

The shirt against my shoulders hurts my acne.

I feel the nodules getting inflamed, below the surface.

So many they push together now.

My skin is not flexible, it’s a sheath.

I’m stiff. I can’t move my neck to look to the side. I have to turn from the waist.

It hurt to put my head on the pillow last night.

I had to peel my open sores from the pillowcase this morning.

FUCK!

That’s right. I’m pissed. I’m pissed at YOU, God.

That’s right. I’m angry, and I don’t want to hear about it.

(…This feels good. I’m strong when I’m angry…)

Wait – can you be pissed at God? Is that against the rules?

Do you always have to be thankful?

…?

Job. Job did it. Job got pissed at God.

That’s right, Job was the good God-loving man.

He didn’t complain when God fucked him over. He just kept taking it, and taking it.

He said why me, but he never blamed God.

Finally some dude

came and told him

he wasn’t going about it the right way.

He needed to address God, “and let the waters flow” or something like that.

So he let God have it.

And that’s when God talked back.

If Job can do it, I can do it.

Yeah, I’m pissed God. You know it.

Don’t even come near me with any grace.

You just sit there and take it, cause I’ve about had enough.

I’m angry at you.

…At least right now. Soon enough, I know I’ll have to address you with a real question.

Like Job did.

But not yet.

I like being angry.

At least for a little bit.

Five more houses, maybe.

Five more houses, then I’ll see what you got.

…

….

…..

……

…….

Allright God, why me? Why does it have to be so hard?

Why do you put me through this? Why do you give me an almost impossible situation?

Rock and a hard place.

Either way, I feel like I’ll die. I really think so.

Why does it have to be this hard. Why does it have to—

-because you are meant for greater things.

you will do much more than this.

but you must grow stronger, first.

you are growing through this –

...

whoa.

..

…

….

Wow.

That makes sense.

Was that really God?

Wow, that really makes sense. I have to be here now. I will grow stronger.

Later, I will be capable of so much more.

Through pushing myself a little,

here and now.

Without this challenge, I would be at home wasting away. Literally.

It's a gift from God.

It’s all a gift from God.

The job, and the disease.

The rock and the hard place.

Without these boulders, I wouldn't have found the strong message from... God.

..

...

This isn’t so bad out here. The sun is shining.

And my back – it started feeling better.

Whoa, it feels good to relax. I’ve been holding onto a lot of stress.

It feels good to let it go.

It sure is pretty out here.

…..