“Hope” is (after Emily Dickinson)

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That tickles at the nose –
And keeps on irritating –
Until you’ve snoze – and snoze –

And Sensibility – is lost –
And so much you’d condone –
To make this nagging, feathered thing
Leave you the eff alone –

I’ve felt it at the bleakest times –
It springs eternally!
And – never – will it GO AWAY.
It asks too much – of me.

essentialism

my guilty feelings
regarding some shortfall
conditioned by the context
of unlucky life circumstances
are transformed into shame

a self-hating conviction
that in my core
in my deepest identity
i’m fundamentally broken

this is wrong
essentialism is bullshit

a bad experience
with a particular person
conditioned by the context
of an unjust society
is transformed into racism

an other-hating conviction
that all who share
an irrelevant characteristic
are fundamentally inferior

this is wrong
essentialism is bullshit

form is emptiness
emptiness is form
essentialism is bullshit

say it with me now
essentialism is bullshit

one more time
essentialism is bullshit

it really goddamn is

body

so get this:

jesus died

they hung his body on a tree
and then he died
(dead is dead)

but now they say
he’s resurrected

they put his body
in a grave
and then
and then

the grave was empty!

so get this:

now they say
that we
are his body

that’s crazy, right?
how are we supposed to
rub some mud
in a blind dude’s eyes
and make him see?

that’s crazy
the only thing
that i know how to do
with mud
is make bodies dirty

dead is dead
and if you think otherwise
that’s crazy

but if you want to get
your body dirty
i can help you out

conjuring

arcane strings of words and symbols
shaped precisely as prescribed
by those who pioneered the craft
chock-full of raw creative vibe

forming, out of nothing, constructs
with their own reality
relating, interacting, changing
time and life, humanity

when i was a kid i wondered
how it felt when magic flowed
from the fingers of a wizard
damn, i’m glad i learned to code

learning to play the banjo

there’s a lot to learn
about this twangy contraption
of mahogany and rosewood
mylar and steel
screwed together like an ikea end-table

i’m cramming my head
with musical knowledge
of strings and frets
chords and rolls
the gray matter’s working extra hard

but my fingers
my poor fumbling fingers
like beer-bellied sluggards
trying olympic gymnastics
scoff, you call what you’re doing learning?

brain, please