Wildrose is resourceful Its geophysiology is vast It threw runners To make landbridge It threw pollen With voracious joy. Underground network of wildrose Linking all the political lovers And infinite breathing flesh In each temporality experienced Is resurgent insurrection The form of life of wildrose Is experiment in relationship Also named Plex.
Earth the tousled rosebed! Belly and horizon! Wildrose suckers freely from underground stems and roots Forming dense colonies that run wild This wedding names everyone wildrose.
After eons of fauna and flora, hominids have stood for mere years baffled brains atop battered shoulders. We bury bodies in shallow dirt, heedless of lacking space or how long our makeshift planet will host us. Still, I feel it inside its cage sounding a dull tattoo: I want, I want—.
I stand before my routine reflection, button up my sanity, brush weary strands of hair with pomade and seal cracked lips of distrust with cocoa butter and matte rouge. I ready myself once again for morning and mortify. For a moment, I stand with ghosts and the framed ancestors surrounding me.
When she held a body, she saw much worse than this. I know she was earshot and fingertip close to oppression. She saw how hateful hate could be. She raised babies, taught Stone Rangers, grew a natural and wrote around critics. Another day, when I have to tip-toe around the police and passive-aggressive emails from people who sit only a few feet away from me.
They want me to like it, or at least pretend, so the pretty veils that blanket who we really are— this complicated history, can stay pretty and veiled like some desert belly dancer who must be seen but not heard. We are a world of lesions. Human has become hindrance. Ignorance has become powerful. The dice that rolls our futures is platinum but hollow inside. Did you see that, Ms. They are skinning our histories, deporting our roots, detonating our very right to tell the truth. We are one step closer to annihilation. Hold On everybody. Hold On because the poets are still alive—and writing.
Hold On to the last of the disappearing bees and that Great Barrier Reef. Hold On to the one sitting next to you, not masked behind some keyboard.
The one right next to you. The ones who live and love right next to you. Hold On to them. When we kneel on the rubbled mosques, sit in massacred prayer circles, Holding On is what gets us through. We must remember who we are. We are worth fighting for. Hold On. Even if all you have left is that middle finger around your God-given right to be free, to be heard, to be loved, and remembered…Hold On, and keep Holding. We are bodies dropped to the floor.
We are shaking. We are our own. Still, somehow, we are laughter. We are the doorway out.
We are again the doorway in. I had for my winter evening walk— No one at all with whom to talk, But I had the cottages in a row Up to their shining eyes in snow. And I thought I had the folk within: I had the sound of a violin; I had a glimpse through curtain laces Of youthful forms and youthful faces. I had such company outward bound. I went till there were no cottages found. I turned and repented, but coming back I saw no window but that was black. We woke to the darkness before our eyes, unable to take the measure of the loss.
Who are they.