Tara_the_Terror Star

For Coltrane

You are not forgotten, Little One





...prayer, unfinished

waiting for blood, I track back-twinges, appetites,
water weight -- haven't begged for blood
in years, willed contraction
into an unsure womb -- I dyed my hair
to rival fire engines, fall asleep
under bright paper poppies

but I've been savoring names, rolling them around
in my mouth, matching them to your sweet
potential scent... I'm nowhere near ready for you,
can't even keep plants alive... likely I'm unfit,
an incurable skeptic consumed with all I still
want to do -- would you sleep backstage
in the green room? eat Cheerios in the van
between Fayetteville and Memphis?

the only life I can offer
defies every textbook

but if you insist on existing, clinging hard
to my pillowed interior, take this life of protest
and rapture / in this land of smokestacks
I can't even promise you air

but I can promise you honesty
and the pain of knowing too much,
promise uncontrollable laughter,
swear the hands of family and revolutionaries
will harbor
and lift you

ours is a red legacy, and children of poets
get weaned on questions, grow riddles
in their bellies -- but in blood I would bear you
and the spilled and guilty bloods of your ancestors
would river you through this country
damp with it

forgive me for wanting you so much
I would bring you into this violent nation
without the weapons of privilege
or pure bloodline, knowing you
are not the only cause I might die for

but if we wait until this world deserves you,
I will never know whether you have your
grandfather's crooked walk or your aunt's
imperfect pitch / tarot readers
and shaman have dreamed of your arrival,
warned you may not come
at all

so this prayer is for you, tiny fusion
of cells, kinetic energy deciding whether
to Be...

I hesitate to name you,
knowing I could never give you half
what I've been granted.

tonight I leak red, carry stains
to familiar altars. forgive me
for believing in my own
insufficiency, for postponing you
to extinction -- sleep safe now
with whatever god holds you closest
while I wait
to grow worthy of you.











Paul McCarthy's latest inflatable sculpture, Tree, was just unveiled at the FIAC Art Fair in Paris, and many are startled by the fact that it looks less like a Christmas Tree and more like a giant butt plug.

Let's just hope a big gust of wind doesn't take hold of Tree and send it crashing into an elementray school like McCarthy's inflatable poop sculpture, Complex Shit, back in 2008.







Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood on the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.









Ebola is God's way of saying your internal organs aren't running out of your eyes enough.




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