My body is a beehive
humming from root to crown
filled with the nectar of desire
its borders laced in sacred geometry.
The queen hides her golden wings
in clefts no lover can fathom
unless, in seeking her ambrosia
they risk her sting.
What will you do with your pain?
Run from it
and from the honey you long for
in the sweetness of Now?
Will you deny the vibrations humming
from the base of your spine
spiraling up serpentlike
to the dome of your skull?
Enter the hollow tree
and see where that tunnel goes.
It promises to hurt like anything
It promises the pleasure that brings you
back home to this present moment, heart
swollen from the sting
and a head full of honey. …
I recently witnessed a creature I thought had gone extinct: a dinner party my mother hosted, where Democrats and Republicans got into the same room and nobody started a fight. My parents are old-school. As far as they’re concerned, there’s no reason not to stay friends with the people they’ve been hanging out with since the Carter administration.
There were ten people present. Three of them had voted for Trump and seven felt the country was crumbling irreparably as a result of Trump’s presidency. But the subject, when it came up, didn’t split the dinner party into a brawl over the way he has dealt with the pandemic, his racist base, his failure to levy taxes on the rich, or whether he has made America “great” again. …
Driving down the highway
weeping so hard the windshield fogs up
steering with my knee while I blow my nose
is just a thing I do now.
Words fly from me these days
and tears come in their place.
When I cry, the sky rains
and wind bows the treetops.
It’s not a pretty cry, this grief
welling up from the lungs
in hoarse howls and jagged questions
no one can hear.
Everything: the clouds
the sky behind them
the smell of creosote
the wet road humming
steadily beneath the tires
answers with the same words:
just keep going.
Never mind that the world
has shaken loose from its anchorage
and is hauling through seas you cannot
Rising in bare post-dawn gloom
to light a fire and put the coffee on
I feel the ashes of my ancestors
stirring in unremembered scatterings
around the world.
They lie beneath city foundations
and the roots of mountains
they mix with rain to feed trees
their atoms fly free with countless others
to become clouds and air and stars.
One or two of them live on in me
patiently feeding wood into the stove
inhaling the scent of fresh grounds
and listening to crows shout muffled
questions to one another through deep fog.
I don’t know what they’re saying,
I can’t see anything from here.
The ashes drift in reply: put more coffee on, child
everything you love
and everything you fear
are coming to your door even now.
If you liked this poem, you might like this one too:
I recently watched Joe Rogan’s episode with Bret Weinstein, touted as the man who “sounded the alarm” about the current protests back in 2017. Weinstein, a member of the Intellectual Dark Web, runs his own podcast, with a focus on human nature and the state of civilization through an evolutionary lens. The 3-hour interview took me a week to get through as I had to work hard to stomach it. Rogan isn’t my favorite, but liking him isn’t the point. He invites a diverse array of guests from various points of view. …
The moon takes the earth in her arms
like two women swinging around a dance floor
sometimes slow as a rumba
sometimes wild as drunken sisters at a wedding.
I am part of the earth
so the moon tugs at the waters of my body
from where I lie looking at her
deep in the sun-drenched afternoon.
My pulse goes rivering through secret canals
from my heart’s giddy windmill
to the cave of my belly
out the estuaries of fingertips and toes
where it seeks the wider world.
This body grows old
one wrinkle, one grin
one barbarous whoop at a time.
Its teeth bare themselves at the void
where before they devoured life;
its leonine hunger growls less
where before it used to roar. …
My grandfather once sent me a cicada shell in the mail. I was seven. I remember the plain brown paper bag that wrapped the smallish box, our address scrawled on the outside in his handwriting: Kenai, Alaska, Star Route 3, Box 27.
My mother stood by as I opened the packaging. A weird smell wafted up from the contents: sweet-sour, like rotting grass but heavier, deader. He’d put the shell inside a clear plastic vial, a little bigger than my fist, then packed it in Styrofoam peanuts. I lifted the vial out. …
everything you know about yourself
if you want to learn about love
or it’ll school you the hard way.
Go into it thinking I’ve got this
and be shocked when it sprouts horns
and furry pants
leaving cloven-hoofed prints
on the good couch.
What will you do with your heart?
You could try to hide it
like crime scene evidence:
the red flare of blood that pulses
through every word and threatens
to burst the fragile membrane between
what you say and what you wish
you had the guts to say.
Any sane person will tell you:
put a muzzle on your love.
Don’t do the first thing it commands
because it might be wrong
and what stories will they tell
about you then?
That you live by the heart?
But how? It’s a crime scene. …
The moth strode into my room last night
trailing his fabulous cape of wings
and asked me to set him free.
I shut the window and listened
to the sound of him beating
against a glass prison
keening softly in the moonset.
I could smell the night forest
with her magnificent crown of stars
and her scepter of rot and nectar
drawing the moth to herself
but I longed to keep us together.
This morning I rose to greet my friend
and found only the tattered fabric
of his wings, lying like torn sails
beneath the windowsill.
Nothing that I love belongs to me
not the wide, wild world
not the soft secrets cupped in my hands
not even myself.
The moment I learned this
the cage opened and I flew free. …