Sonnet #237

We love in the kingdom of broken toys
Yet often forget that we are of them
But — let’s be truthful — nothing works right when
It’s just removed from box, girls and boys
Must bend the limits of designers into shapes
And as the wearing happens parts will scratch
Some will shatter or disappear, unscrew, unlatch
Until we settle in to our familiar limping gaits
And melt and stumble and be made new
Unfinished until broken, all designs a start
Where the hands of builders stop, the true
Shapes emerge from happy abusers, faulty parts
We live in the kingdom of broken toys
Play until ruined on costumes and joys


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Sonnet #236

Believe in darkness, for in shadows truths reveal

The shape of shadows, the way the room traverses

Where the foot breaks on wood and remembered curses

How the forest of the night is holy in how it feels:

Terrifying. An all-consuming shadow, all jagged places

Rapacious. Believe in darkness, for darkness walks

Behind you. You cannot see the steps, but talk

Into the darkness, whisper, beg for mercy, race

if you dare, but the faster run the faster trip

The harder fall: Believe in darkness where the holy

Stalks behind you, in the rising hairs, the slip

Where hidden boundaries and subtle, slowly

grasping, paths of vegetation and lost steps

Each footfall made in hope, each prayer made truly

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Sonnet #235

We bloom at night when nothing but moths

are pouring from the shadows, our perfume

calls all their tongues to dip into our womb

Where we hold ground and make, our worth

Is measured in the memories of souls

Where bent by us, the moon’s refraction,

With the gesture of our palms,concatenations

of our scents, intoxicate all strolls

with echoes in the air, our silent songs,

This scent of flowers shining from the bark

Where petals hidden pale and focused strong

to call the moths of midnight, they embark

in dreamlight off their hard cocoons, but not for long

We feed these shadow countries, cool and stark

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Sonnet #234

To sing of miracles, let us sing the spiders’ song

This misty early spring, rains crystallize the webs

the architecture glistens like a crystal silk and strong

so strong to hold the weight of water; how did

these tiny minds build up to this from Darwin’s years?

Surrounded by such miracles we can’t even stop

to enjoy in all this rain, I sing of tiny spiders

how small their arms, how small their lot

Inventing in the corners of the world their dazzling

Made for no one, beauty for no sake at all

Despite eight eyes, they never admire the puzzling

shapes and countershapes that form their whole

The tremor in the web beneath their feet

is all they know, a tense vibrato of life and defeat

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Sonnet #233

For years, they’ve heard us all complain

About those kids, how they are doing things wrong

How they do not know anything, their songs

are not even music, and they’re lazy and complain

We have told them they are ruined by trophies

They do not deserve, in skills they’ll never master

Better than anyone that came before, We’re the faster

We’re the ones who know things, our stories

Are the best stories, we tell truths to them

and they ought to listen because we accept the dust

of how things are, we know we are all powerless, then

We say, nothing ever changes: If things get hard, all must

They’ve seen us howl, seen how we will not save them

It seems, now, instead, they have decided to save us

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Sonnet #232

Would you sacrifice your life for gas

station burritos? Someone did. They bled

with all their friends and lovers dead

And carved into pieces, saran-wrapped, passed

into machines; also every bean contained

the possibility of flowers, the hope of mothers

Every kernel, stalk of green, all other

pieces of this tepid slab had holiness

This is why to make food poorly is a sin:

Oh, Life! What did these beautiful ones die for?

If we must kill to live, let us honor those done in

Who gave their children for our children, nor

should we allow the hungers quotidian

to permit us to forget how death’s head roars

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Sonnet #231

As I live, I hide these nests inside my hair

Where songs are born, slip out, take wing

I try to say the growths are merely things

Long lost, leftovers of childhood. ignore the singing.

As I live and work, just mind gradiations,

Foraging patterns, all that stuff that spirits do

With all of us, passing through their iterations

As if they never stopped to hatch and grow anew

But autumn comes, and I see my leaves descend

And I, uncaring who may know or see

What’s been hidden until the wind rends

loose these dying papers, scattered leaves

These nests I hold, here, all of them are mine

I lift them up; I protect; the birds return in time

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The Truth About Microwaves

This is very simple, the new spying we do
Say you build microwaves. Every office has one.
Every kitchen. People tell the truth in kitchens.
Kitchens are honest.
Say you build microwaves.
You put a GPS in the microwave.
You put a small microphone in it.
You sit in some distant cubicle, under a bunker, and search out
You must be very careful how you do it
If you are caught, it could be a problem for you
But, still —

You turn on the microwave.

Say you are the country that builds all the microwaves
Your mountains are stripped to the bedrock for the building of them
Your rivers are the rivers of mercury
Your people live in cots, die in cots
They wear full-body suits with goggles for eyes
while they work
they work a long time

you turn on their microwaves

It doesn’t have to be microwaves
They build everything

At night, the technocrats sit up and listen to the world that exists
outside their factories
Where people have time to cook in their kitchens
Where people talk about their day, tell the truth about it
And you get to hear what it’s like
In offices where people have time to talk while they eat
In all the places that don’t build the microwaves
And people tell each other the truth

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Sonnet #230

Everything we see and everything we touch

Began as a dream in somebody’s head

All tools are imagined, all laws come from beds

where dreamers rise to wake their world as such

All the dreamers I know live out on the edge

They tread water in dreams, burn all their wax

They work twice as long, pay twice the tax

Every time the bills come due, all bets must have hedge

The state of the union where dreamers are poor

The state of the union where dreamers work late

The state of the union where delusions of grandeur

Are met with terror and mockery, hate

The state of the union where making art and poetry

Means fool’s uselessness, merit so hungry

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Sonnet #229

Who owns the poem and knows what it means —
Who writes the questions on the test —
Who chooses what is good and what is best —
And understands the truth inside the lean?
Oh star crossed letters, I do not know
Why ever would I stop to explain
When what I know is written plain
And never made much sense to me, so
Work it out upon a word, these little steps
Into the hills, walking round the mountains
Where the bird songs should be kept
And rainstorms come — Oh, star crossed mountains
Every step is lost and lost, inept
Others say what footprints planted claim

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