CONFESSION ZERO

Sovereignty. Cradle. Twin Rivers. 2002. That was the then, patriot. Bursts of flesh, groan of empire, now. This, the sun's testimony, script. A country’s story. Broken land. O! Terminate her now, dear patriot! Sands scrape ahead of winter, brittle are her arid bones. Split. Over ripe. Dithering. Bent. Pierce the center, the hidden heart. O! Blood and child! Now’s the time to grieve, patriot. Toss tears to wind and soil as souls drift by in wooden boxes. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

The looming shadow holds her every thought from her signature. She remembers as a child she seemed to be without fear in the hollow imaginings of nightfall, she was braver when she put her tongue to his and they fell together. (Love became tired and mean and loud and put a fist inside her smile.) She convinces herself to lie still, to not make a sound, and she does, like a game of charades without gestures. The shadow keeps growing, rising like the pain of seeing a loved one suffer, waiting on the moon to reveal the fog, waiting on the rock to uncover the cause, the shadow to pay a visit, to bring fresh bread and bandages and maybe the pieces of herself. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Nothing paints our bodies like the grief in pain. It floats in the ribs. It expands In dread Like a red violin With a broken string. She scrambles away on the air, Exhaling notes already composed by another. It is music gone mad. It is anguish and ecstasy Sharing the page With misfortune. She has climbed as high as she can. Happiness brushes against her, It is her acquittal, Transitory; Composer of this instant, Her masterpiece. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

What it is I've found in the course of this I will tell you. I will. I will, But there’s little comfort in knowing. The awful and the good get beaten down Like a snitch in the prison yard, Fist upon fist, kick upon kick, Pain upon goddamned pain. How many of the living, the wounded, The blameless and marked, Should I expect to be wasted? The abuser has cruelty like illumination, They can see within it, yet know not its heart. The abused have fear like darkness, They can't see within it, yet know when it's upon them. What I’ve found in the course of this I will tell you. I will. I will, But, like I said, there’s little comfort in it. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

The pale little girl with the long brown curls and small bare feet. The pale little girl shrunken in the corner that keeps her hidden, that banks the echoes sharply and holds in her tears lit of a violent ache. The pale little girl closes her eyes, remains still, silent, “To avoid being seen.” she sighs, and looks to the tiny fairy that alights upon her knee, “You are so brave, my little one. So very brave and beautiful.” The pale little girl exhales, sharing her warm breath, knowing what’s real between the savage air and furious skin. Best to stay motionless than feel such things. The pale little girl, With the long brown curls And small bare feet. Hushed between worlds. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

When I think of the families torn up, leaving their trust at the gates of horror, unable to find the pathway from loss, when I think of that unbearable defeat, that howling ache, no words can mend, no amount of joy-filled photos puts right. Violent fury is the scrape of the serpent and lends no favors upon the abused. Serenity, if not within reach for the whole world, might nod a favor upon a small portion, smiles letting go their fissured frame, laughter feeling safe again. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Why isn't the landscape more scarred after such terrible storms? Why aren’t all the lampposts cowered in gloom, all the windows without glass, bricks shattered, when violent winds toss their worship like bombs on the moon? These questions haven’t motive, they’re human. Bloody human, gripping at life boats. I’m curious, curious as to why we’re floating so close, side by side, but this, our proximity, doesn't reach or teach, it has yet to sketch grace upon our ragged canvas. On the final minute of our final day we’ll blanch at reflections of ourselves, ghosts, save for the wide open wound of our somber account, our soiled adoration of battles and grief wiped clean for tomorrow, covered in the same, too sightless, too diverted, whatever we've done and will do, everything we've made of ourselves, of others, the moon, we’ll not risk taking off our masks…or learning. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman