eighth

o ye of little faith,

o ye of tiny bank account,

o ye of large heart,

o ye of many worries,

 

o ye of few true friends,

o ye of precious child,

o ye of perpetual exhaustion,

o ye of strong passions:

 

if you have but the faith of a mustard seed—

yet even a half, a quarter, an eighth—

 

you shall be seen and heard; you shall be

provided for; you shall inherit the mountain.

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annealed

i was fired for the first time

on poem-in-your-pocket day;

 

or rather, let go—dropped, free-falling.

perhaps fired is better: lit up, burned,

 

refined. there is no paper in my

pocket, but there is always a poem;

 

and even on this day, i am

going to write myself out of

 

my misery-worry and ride that

sudden drop of uncertainty,

 

that guttural buzz of

—anything can happen next—

 

and it will. and it always does.

next year at this time, on poem-in-

 

your-pocket day, i’ll be in a brand

new place, filling up my brimming

 

pockets with brand new

words, words, words.

burn all the money

you write me into existence with

those beautiful veined hands;

 

your phantom sweetness bleeding

through to greet-create me.

 

this world was made to be free,

to be met head-on with abandon:

 

rolling down a grassy hill, throwing

all your gold over a cliff into the sea.

 

do you hear me? all we need comes

from the earth; every-thing we eat:

 

grown up and out like what we know

in our roots to be the ancient

 

trees of self, of

abundant anti-greed.

 

 

 

currency

take it—

this tiny purse:

 

hold it in your hand, feel

its woven edges, its

 

rounded corners, its

tight, shiny clasp.

 

weigh the change as it

shifts and stretches the

 

fabric. this is

the treasure:

 

this moment

 

this gold mouth

clicked open,

 

these carved coins

spent, one at a time,

 

at your own

delicious discretion.

 

but first, the ridges

rolled between fingers,

 

each cool face held up to

the lips and kissed

 

before being tossed

—heads over tails—

 

into the fountain.

ink

this is not how it’s done.

this is not business as usual.

 

retirement is an illusion;

life is this, here, now.

 

the pain of the present can be counted

on to be capitalized: traded and

 

tucked into the pockets of those living

in penthouses above, outside of, time.

 

we say we want our freedom,

but we can’t handle it; we give

 

it away again and again to

the highest bidder, and we don’t

 

even get to see the profit margin:

it slinks off into the night like wet ink.