s/he

he says it’s ‘cause he be greedy.
searching out too many caves of pot
luck under rainbows,
chasing a dame that drew
out a sword from his smiling gut,
and that’s not even a tragedy
because if you sew together makeshift masks
of alcoholic binging and 35mm photography
you might find something closer to truthful meaning
than meaning to
write out words of beauty
onto a tear stained cloth
in all capitals rising to the ranks of the city
and he might kiss you
‘cause he thinks you be so pretty.

he says it’s ‘cause he speaks four languages
that date back to centuries
before linguists knew what we is,
that his text book get heavy from ancient scriptures,
that his skin tone get lighter with each orthodox fixture
and he’d fake your organism
‘til you come
to his awakening
still long
because no barriers will be breaking
just like flare guns pointed at
your glottal

stop.

he took magic out of the missionary
position and excommunicated it,
be fathers of tradition
never allowing incense burners to settle
and i’ve planted my prayers ten times over
with sages burning brush fire
and tried to smudge out his refusal
to accept the act of his betrayal
and how he guided you
out of the world of men
and into the caves of women
and that for a while you’d still be bleeding
and consistently needing his validation
but he’s moved on
to get the shit beat out of him
by verbal rhythm
and two step death dance ‘round
which woman’s the right one for him
and he can’t decide,
more or less fight
because he thinks they’ll just come to him
crawling on hind feet
with a mating call
because he’s got it all goin on for him
but he can’t create a life
if you paid him
so he might as well stay lost
like his virginity
because it’s so easy to scrape the surface
of insecurity
than actually
just
be.

i said
these wings didn’t suffice enough for deployment,
that your span couldn’t tie him,
that those tips couldn’t bind him,
but wanted to.
i said
some things.
i said
that i heard in russia the cold creeps down your throat
and pulls out scallywag soul
makes no profit off your selling price
makes no heaven off your poltergeist
and i said
that i heard that in
bathroom stalls
they make lyric out of permanent ink
tattooed across the plastic walls
that one time they said,
i love a girl and a man
that one time they said,
i am a pagan and a pillow princess
that one time i said,
i am the moon and this is the madness of my cycle.

he says it’s because he’s too deeply unaffected,
that he’s never shoved his soul down the windpipes of her existence
and he’s too busy day dreaming about cartography
and planting seeds of money,
he’s too busy breeding heart wounds
in stuffed sarcophagus
to practice punching gold demons
so he just turns and runs.
and he acts like some willow tree
with my name carved on it’s base root chakra,
it’s heart etched in like a sorry archer
plummeting her way through the sky
and the trunk has green muscle under the skin,
but that doesn’t guarantee anything about an october harvest
and i’ll bet he has fists
that would turn flaccid at any threat of an attack
and he would still try to be that intelligent conversation
as if he had you,
as if all the hours you gave up to serve him,
as if you need any more reason to not retreat back to him
to hear stories of how he’s too scared to be him,
that no truth will ever be lifted,
and how he’s just so fucking wounded,
if my prayers hatch like pearls
from a demon,
then you’ll never have to answer to him
and you’ve already shed light your skin
so rebirth isn’t even needed
but restriction and thought process
needs to be limited,
you’ll never
have to answer to him.

he looks like magnified metallic
with roaring glory
like a slice of crescent blood stream
hut he’s not holy
and he’s still filthy
and he’s so untrustworthy
that even the Moon don’t want him,
and he will never change
...............must....finish...........