Hedge Apple

I am a member of a forsaken community
and I refuse to believe that
we have a safe place in this world
I realize this may be a shock, but
our experiences are uniquely valid
is a fucking lie; and
only those who adhere to the binary deserve to live
So I will tell the next generation that
they have no power in this world
Bigots will know that
I appreciate what’s truly important
sticking to these patriarchal labels
is more essential than
Being authentic to myself
Once upon a time
We stepped outside without fear of rape or death
But that shit will not be true in my era
This is a binary society and all individuality will be erased
Ministers tell me
we must all be categorized by the length of our genitalia
I do not concede that
everyone will be free to express themselves
In the future
each one of us will be fossilised
and no longer will it be said that
we’re descendants of celestials and the divine
It will be evident that
we are grostique abominations
How the fuck could we presume that
There is hope for us to have a respected place in society

(now read from the bottom up.)

in which families say / regarding their four-hour-old newborn /
she has her mother’s eyes / her father’s nose / her grandmother’s
ears / her grandfather’s toes
then / as she grows / characteristics set in and families say / she
has this one’s smarts / that one’s athletic gift / this one’s fine
draftsmanship / that one’s bubbly showmanship
in time / virtues and faults follow / whose temper / whose charm
/ whose tolerance / whose stubbornness / whose gracefulness /
whose possessiveness / whose pridefulness / whose calm
eventually / the game may complicate / with troubling hints /
of inherited sadness / or worry / or brittleness / or over-strict
conscience
yet in this intermittent / speculative game / families often see
things not there / or fail to notice what is
and in any case / any trait handed down gets amended / by the
child’s private / thorny / experience
so even after a years-long session of this game / in truth / nobody
knows a thing
the child least of all
leaving her to her own / slow / self-defining speculations / to her
own / unfolding / consequential / game of solitaire

I
wade
upstream
over rocks
feet firmly planted
shuffling sideways like a sly crab
concentrating on the water’s speed and on the depth.
I’m leaving those in need to find why so many people keep falling in the river.
But if the current takes me under and sends me back
drowning and in need of rescue,
will you still be there
at the shore?
Will you
catch
me?

The day 144,000 words
Got slashed ten times over
By one single blade
A podium awaited in quiet

.

Writers and wannabes
Unwittingly at this requiem
For every exile
Bled untold stories on paper
Or dreamed such sacrifice

.

As a blind man
Rushed the stage
With eyes were geographic balloons
Filled past capacity
From breathing
The stale air of barbarism

.

Unleashed like a perfect storm
Fermented in machinery
Operated by deformed Wizards of Oz

.

Who like the assailant
Believe they can see God
Unfalteringly

.

So to cover blindness
Under permission’s blanket

.

Albeit no Oz will be caught
Associating with any miscreant
In rumpled T-shirt and skinny jeans
Doing their dirty work
The insulated wear pressed suits
Or fine robes beneath carefully coiled turbans

.

We who still can see
Are on our own
Though keep alive
A most strange
Kind of vision
Necessary

.

To find one another
To save ourselves
By imagining
Then making
Every sentence come true

.

In the mythic land of art
Of ideas on the move
Beyond borders
Bet your life on it
Salman Rushdie did.

botanic gardens. 9am
and after a night out
in town. I was twenty.
nineteen – I was maybe
nineteen. out, some activity
to rinse off the drinking
and the feeling you get
of a tired clearheadedness
which you think
when you’re young
is a hangover.
endorphins rushing,
the giddiness of trick
shots at pool and the sun,
like a chuckle,

.

making light without heat.
the morning quite pretty
and the angle of certain
locations. greenhouses;
white-spired piles of victorian
iron. shapes of horizon
like fishhooks crunched
into a fist. fantastic. a life
in a glass of cold
water. I don’t know
who’s idea it was,
going, but remember
being glad they’d had it.

.

the sun on the grass
drying out a wet night.
the shine of the flowers
in clusters like billiards on baize.

She finds her voice in an empty room
And tries it out in the echoing chambers
Of a pink-lined shell
That sends it ringing back
To her; a mottled little wife.

.

He stands up to notice the practice pieces
Of cool, clear notes, and bows
As she leaves him for an open space
He has heard the call that came
To her; the bright, fighting woman.

.

The prairie roots her firmly
With its blowing, bristle grass
That tickles her calves urging speed.
In silence it whispers her words back
To her; the clear, complicated person.

.

Rocks on the road pierce her shoe soles
In the painful way that is life.
Still, she hurries for the breath
Of wind that carries her mans’ name
To her; the compassionate, loving soul.

.

And she returns to the empty room
To sing, her voice a familiar garment now
Flowing around her as she works
With his voice in harmony
To her; attuned to their life
together.

summer warmth
siphoned off
slowly
amid
November skies
and
I walked
alone
crunching leaves
beneath worn soles
chilled with
breezes
crisp
choking on
words unspoken
thinking
lonely thoughts
wishing
hoping
feeling empty
walking
wanting
to go home
but
that was
miles away
and
years ago
so
I walked
on
alone

My husband’s name sewn into the necks
or waistbands of his clothes returned
from the nursing home, his scent laundered
out of them, the folds of his long body
no longer in the folded clothes.

.

I must pluck the stitches to remove each label
before I give his things to a homeless shelter
where men who live in the Hoovervilles
of Americana are coaxed inside in freezing weather.

.

My husband would have given
the shirt off his back to anyone, and now
his clothes will be given to the living.