1.
In search of brutal hands
that can bash in skulls and eyes and tongue,
hands that turn the person to primordial
and leave visceral poetry across
the crime scenes, hands that pour
goat milk and raw honey from Grecian vases
and waterboard this temple until
it cries out cosmic truth,
hands made of serpent flesh
that pull hearts and lungs from cages
and examines them in the fresh mountain sun
looking for potential jewels,
hands that do the work of Revalations,
that drum and trumpet the beat of four riders
pulling apart this husk
in those cardinal directions
leaving a mandala of all one was
for scavengers to fight over,
hands that won’t let go till our
fervorous pleas of OH-PLEASE-KILL-ME
aren’t speaking from a place of fear
but from the roots,
in search of those hands
that show us all that remains
good in a man.
2.
If I rub my hands together, with enough force
I can turn the dust into sparks,
a handful of lightning thoughts and thunder beliefs,
and if I do it long enough,
there will be plenty for you and for me.
And if we rub our hands together, with enough force,
we can turn all fear into a seedling,
a tree with roots tangled in and out our
skin, blossoms bursting through our chests
and fruit shall fall from our eyes
as we age.
I rub my hands across the petals of your lips,
I can turn them into ash, with enough force,
and then I can hold more of you
in my hands.
If I rub my hands together
I can turn your dust into sparks
all lightning struck tree,
planted in the palm of me.
3.
Those who can read
Know her as a star map, already fading
those who can touch
Know her sympathy can, in fact, vanish
Those who can hold
End up knowing she doesn’t really want them
Those who are offered, though,
Know she is handing them a second chance.