Transition JD Stillwater, 2019
Our fathers’ science
reduces my selfhood to widgets
a model, a machine,
idly ticking clockwork,
pointless.
Our fathers’ religion
renders my body a shadow
a slut-shamed sleaze
a clay model, a precursor,
discounted.
Our daughters’ science
consecrates wholeness
First Light made mortal meat,
cosmic wind incarnate,
alive.
Our daughters’ religion
marries meat and mind,
a sweaty pungent monument
a galaxy, a destination,
a symphony.
Cloudy With a Chance of Hell JD Stillwater, 2019
I just want to watch movies.
Or browse YouTube.
Something wrong with that?
I don’t want to walk to work,
or ride my bike with a daypack.
Gas is cheap now!
I want to lie on the floor, and relax
with a cuddly friend, maybe.
I want a handbag with sequins that flip.
I want to be safe.
I could use a new phone, one with
a bigger screen and more colors.
Plan ahead? Why?
fares are cheap now
Did you see that new thing? I
ordered one; it’ll be here tomorrow.
I just want to be warm.
Why bother hanging them?
this new dryer is high-efficiency.
I don’t want to be good; I need
to de-stress and be fully present.
I tried to be good once, to recycle, to
do my part, to “save the world.”
Besides, nothing I do will make
any difference whatsoever.
I want to fiddle while Rome burns,
and picnic on the railroad tracks.
This Body JD Stillwater, 2019
This body–
sweaty, stinky, earthy
bones, blood, breath
flabby, wrinkled, furtive
–is no mere shadow.
This body–
that shits and sings and
breathes and heaves and
mumbles and fumbles and
obsesses and professes and
over-eats and over-thinks and
flares and cares and shares and fails
–is no glove for a ghost.
This body–
of clay and water
smoke and sunlight
salt and germs and meat
–is no fine-tuned apparatus.
This body–
of sticky hairy
smells-like-fishy
lusty rusty bloody
slimy grimy snotty
oozing squirting farting
fecund fungus jungle
pond scum arising to carnal flesh
–is no fallen depravity.
This body–
racing full-tilt after the
flying football the
almighty dollar the
gorgeous glamorous girl the
chance at glory or
at least notoriety or
some whispered remembrance
–is no clicking whirring clockwork.
This body–
fertile no longer
but once, wonderfully
(cosmically, even)
still so vibrantly alive
even as I walk
through the valley of the shadow of
despair
–is all I truly know.
This body–
its own magic recipe
blueprint for itself
like a seed
like a spore
gathered ingredients
constructed from
scrapings, pilferings
e unum pluribus
e pluribus unum
–is magic
This body–
the one you pronounce
so confidently
to be mere
shadow on a cave wall, mere
predictable machine, mere
clothing for a ghost, mere
precursor to heavenly bliss
or eternal torment below,
–this body is real.
This body is mine.
–