War Paint

My life unfolded
very badly. Instead
of smooth paths,
the fabric of it
became so wrinkled,
I stumbled many,
many times in the rents,
making outright holes.

Devotion to the senses
made me a limbless mess.
Nothing fixable, not even a
tin dixie cup of forgiveness
can sooth the friable skin
stretched over my eyes.
I’d push small measures of joy
where they might belong

but to whom? Justice evades
the thinkers, I think.
Worry about the consequences
of doves, or Joshua trees
in a simpleton town,
gray tide pools and too
many ruminants licking the grass
in a riddle- driven landscape.

All that I have is the here,
now. I’m a stumble queen
fighting with crows. So my
new affirmation is the past
is harmless, nothing hidden
in the dusty pleats, no black
arachnids aching to pounce.
Learning to avoid the

joy-sucking void has meant
more than all the natural world
has to offer; I’m only alone
when crushed and voiceless
by my internal landscape’s
avalanche and snow pack,
a weak breath to repent.
Should I pay a penance to

a God that is not mine
just to save myself from
the all alone? Is there
a choice and how to know
how to choose it? Who
is there, to ask? I see only
a tilted sky of wrecked stars.
I hear only my own

unctuous jibes.
The darkness finds me frowzy
and aged, touching my way,
applying layers of chalky lies
across my lips and cheeks,
slapping my way awake.
The light never illuminates
enough to dazzle.