shake the dust

This is for the fat girls, this one's for the little brothers, this is for the schoolyard wimps and for the childhood bullies that tormented them. For the former prom queen and for the milk crate ball players, the night time cereal eaters, and for the retired elderly Walmart store front door greeters, shake the dust. This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them, for the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns, for the men who have to hold down 3 jobs simply to hold up their children, for the night time schoolers, for the midnight bike riders trying to fly... shake the dust. This is for the two year olds who cannot be understood because they speak half english, and half God, shake the dust, for the boys with the beautiful sisters, shake the dust, for the girls with the brothers who are going crazy for those gym class wall flowers, the 12 year olds afraid of taking public showers, for the kid who is always late to class because he forgets the combination to his locker, for the girl who loves somebody else, shake the dust. This is for the hard men who want love but know that it won't come, the ones who are forgotten, the ones the amendments do not stand up for, for the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to, and then are never spoken to, speak every time you stand so you don't forget yourself, do not let a moment go by that is a reminder that your heart beats 900 times a day, that there are enough gallons of blood to make you an ocean, do not settle for letting these waves settle, and for the dust to collect in your veins. This is for the celibate pedafile who keeps on struggling, for the poetry teachers, and for the people who go on vacations alone. For the sweat that drips off of Mick jagger's singing lips, and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner's shaking hips, for the heavens and for the hell's through which Tina has lived, this is for the tired and for the dreamers, for the families that will never be like the Kleaver's, with perfectly made dinners, and sons like Wally and the beaver, this is for the biggots, the sexists, and for the killers, and for the big house pin sentenced cats becoming redeemers, remember the spring time always seems to show up right after the winter, this is for every one of you, make sure that by the time the fisherman returns, you're gone, because just like the days, I burn at both ends, every time I write, every time I open my eyes I'm cutting out parts of myself to give to you, so shake the dust and take me with you when you do, none of this has ever been for me, all the pushes and pulls pushes for you, so grab this wool by it's clothes pins, shake it out again and again, jump on top and take it for a spin, and when you hop off, shake it again for this is yours, make my words worth it, make this not just another poem that I write, not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all, walk into it, breathe it in let it crash through the halls of your arms like the millions of years of millions of poets, coursing like blood, pumping and pushing, making you live, shaking the dust, so when the world knocks at your front door, clench the knob tightly and open on up, running forward into it's widespread greeting arms with your hands before you... finger tips trembling though they may be.

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