EVERY WORD

-


Every word
Which we have the freedom to use
Is a boy
Or a girl
as fresh as a prom corsage
in a pine box
In a bone white church
That sits high atop a field of markers
a million Stars of Bethlehem
Many of whom will share the name
Unknown.

Every word
Which we have the freedom to use
Is someone’s dream
Someone’s child
Someone’s love
Someone’s pain
which the wind has carried off
the returning flight of
dust and seeds
to an unimagincally distant place
which is reachable
solely
by the asphyxiating ache of a parent’s prayer.

Every word
Which we have the freedom to use
is as holy and sanctified
as the endless death march miles
of desiccated battlefields
and lost at sea oceans
which stand as memorials
constant reminders
that words are meant for
Declarations of love
and independence
and Constitutions,
Anthems
and Pledges of Alleigenace
and vows
and plays
and scientists
and philosophers
and bibles.

There is a reason that our very first word
and our very last ones
are cherished and
passed down like commandments

Without words
we have no thoughts.
Just obedience.

Every word
Which we have the freedom to use
Every letter
every syllable
Every thought behind them
should be memorialized
especially on this day
in the name of all of those who
perished like stardust
defending our right to have them.

And when the word
is resurrected
And we rise again
That is when we will begin
punishing the politicians
and preachers
who pretend to
speak the language of God
having never bothered
or cared to
learn
not even
one single word

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

MY OWN PERSONAL MERMAID. BELIEVE IN HER.

-
Image
It was a sad time in New York City, especially on Park Avenue where I lived then. My given name was Magritte, for daddy’s favorite artist Rene Magritte, who thought that embracing mystery was “as indispensable as snow on Christmas.” But everyone, as far back as I can remember, always called me “Mags.” I was 8, an only child, who was impressively precocious for her age. My favorite authors were Kafka, the feminist writer Naomi Wolff and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. When I was seven, I wrote a love letter to Stephen Hawking. He wrote back saying, “Jesus, I just can’t figure you out.” I had a room that was handmade to make me feel that magic was at all times of the night and day, a dependable, ever-ready option thanks, in part to the twinkling stars, comet trails, and cream-colored clouds that streaked across the infinite, midnight blue sky of my ceiling  that was painted by my mom when she was young, healthy, and still able to do things like wave to daddy’s video camera with daffy rubber-f
Read more

What Must Babies Think?

-
What must babies think, As they wonder why their Push pram rocket ship Which on most days thrusts them Into the universe of the fiery sky ball and chatter filled park Sits mothballed in the corner Staring at the wall like White-haired bench people Who always seem so Sad and forgotten? What must dogs think The Wal Mart greeters of the Animal world Who use the sign language Of the excitable nose and tail To communicate their borderline insane love for anything that moves When they trot out first thing In the morning like they’re in competition at Westminster Only to discover A show of silent concrete? What must jets think Who usually cannibalize people Until their bellies are full When the only in-flight meal Is a flight crew Two pilots And 900 steerage ghosts Who sit Without hope or destiny In the kind of Quiet That follows anyone Who has ever walked Away from a grave? What must birds think The cocky pigeons The Blue-header vireo Or the Y
Read more

When Ours Parents Are Gone

-
I have not spoken to my dad in over forty years. Years ago I turned my back on him and walked away and that was that. No, we didn’t have a fight. He died when I was 25 and that walk away came right on the beat at the conclusion of the service in the cemetery after we lowered him with sway and love deep into the womb of the ground, like a treasure chest, ceremonially buried in that family secret place that only we would ever know the location of. When you bury a parent, time suddenly becomes unfathomable, unreliable, it suddenly faints away like a delicate socialite into the landing strip of a waiting divan, from the searing heat of loss, Our parent’s final breath pushes us into a dimension of exquisite separation and inextinguishable pain, where everything still feels just within our reach but in truth is now as far away as the weeping moon. The cemetery only knows formality. The weathered stones, which, like the canvas of our souls, have epitaphs and life stories carved deeply into th
Read more