Bittersweet Resistence

I’d like to tell you

Nothing about myself.

I’ll confess, I spend my precious sweat

Darting between the thorns

Of ecstasy, and trying not to see 

The hands that formed the cup

I drink from, disinterested.

When it comes to previews,

Sometimes I don’t need to see the whole thing.

I’d rather watch flashes

Of under-parts

From someone else’s recliner.

I was raised on pollution, allegory and trivia 

About Jews in baseball. Also, fear of the dark,

Loneliness. I asked Jesus once

What he thought about all this

And he said what makes you think

I know anything

More than a tumbleweed taking a bath.

What makes you think

I exist.

Aren’t you Jewish?

It’s Sunday and all my rhythms have caught up to me.

I’m not standing like this because I have been defeated,

But because it feels good

To be close to the ground.

I like to think of time as my concubine.

That when the margins close in

They conform to my shape.

I am a hermit crab,  

Little known fact.

I have a glass house balanced on my back.

The scrimmage of daily tasks, 

The coyotes’ howling from the internet, 

The secrets’ floating grip:

Tasty, don’t you think.