The Pursuit of Real


Drive a slick ride
the color of fresh pomegranate
or dye your long hair
the shade of a robin's throat.
It will not stop the reaper
from mowing the human fields,
it will not stop the intention of the bullet
from flying true.

Go right ahead, shame the peacock
with plumage bought on sale,
catch a mate from the tidal pool of success.
Reel that doctor in
like a bass
from the filigreed edge
of the mossy lake, then
love him until he can take no more.
Let heresy add spice.

Feel free to tattoo my chest
with raven's wings and
the trills of warblers.
Braid my locks with antimony and rue.
I will dress to impress
and change my writing to left-handed,
allow hymns and chants to take root,
grow from within.

Crack us open, sunder our shells
and let the mustard seed
songs of truth burst forth
from our blood and our minds.
There are mountains that sing,
and glaciers that mourn.

Let us draw no breath
that does not come out as oath.

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