I’m a bloodless sport,
But I’ve bled plenty,
Concussions, I’ve had many:
From rugby to punches,
A broken childhood to liquid lunches…
I know the songs of the vulnerable,
The losses of the excluded,
The longings, the implosions of the lonely,
Am not some bourgeois, cheap thing;
My metal has been tested AF;
Tall as mama Sequoia, hard as papa Oak,
Soft as baby reed,
I know when to bend and where to remain firm,
But hardly seal my lips: my voice: am truth ,
My judgements: worthy of maturity –
My boring titles so hard won, though effervescent they be,
But this is no victory lap:
My triumphs: hourly, everpresent,
I am my gift:
This Being, always in all ways, singing and buoyant till the grave or Mars
Tattoos: all celebrations – not scars, those are inside; nothing of this heart is hard,
I am tender, kind; ladybug,
And if I land on you, let me be:
I have parasites to consume,
A garden to protect


Note: Coccinellidae, or ladybug, eats all sorts of pests, but it makes sense when you realize she lays her eggs at the food source, where they too will protect the garden for theirs. Of course, there will always be the birds, frogs, and dragonflies who eat ladybug, but it’s a fair circle of life when a single ladybug eats as many as 5,000 individual insects in her life. Eat organic. And fuck pesticides and all pests who would put their yields over the health of the garden. They say capitalism began when we began to store grain. Now it’s greenbacks. Control. Remember ladybug. She fights the fight she can. Does her part. Tends her garden: être sans malice.

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