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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I'm planting trees today. Cherry trees in front, Peter on the street, Paul in the middle, with Mary closest in toward the house, all on the far side of our gravel drive. On the same southern side, along my neighbor's new above the eyebrows 8-foot fence, backside facing me, which is fine, more backdrop character for vines and ivy, preferably more benign than poisonous I also plant three larger fruit trees, Dillen first, then Spencer, then Daquan, after my three sons in that original adoption-planting order. Then, by the front porch on northern side, an apple tree named Marvin after Gaye, my first love before I knew what mine felt right like. Three thornless blackberries planted in the back, Matthew first, of course, with shared Beatitudes, then Mark, progenitor of gospel lifetime stories, then Luke a healing medicine bush, luxuriously black berried, Agape. All this vast recently adopted extending family to greet and nourish my multiculturally mutually adopted, and sometimes quite dysfunctionally malnourished, human fractured family, rarely allowed to go to bed angry or frightened, at least by each other. While planting I go in and through our home with my muddy gardening shoes, remembering my mother's exasperated voice, Who tracked all this mud through my kitchen?! and my standard response, The mud-tracker prefers to remain anonymous. I'll just bet he does, she responds, as I reach for broom and dustpan. Then later, Why, of all things, would you choose to track through all this muddy gay identity? I was really planning on birthing a Saint! and my response, of course, The filthy queer prefers to remain anonymous. I just hope he does, I can hear her thinking as I plant Peter, then Paul, then Mary, the cherries. About that same time, while sorting through cooperative economics and neuro-sexsensory empowerment politics, my mother wondering why I would choose to head toward Hell as an unredeemed Taoist, and my response The evilish Taoist-Christian hybrid prefers to remain pantheistically anonymous and power-theistically full of organically sacred abundance. In other words, polypathically and polyculturally empty, a fertility anticipates and peacefully does not punishingly intend. About this time I am singing an adoption by water baptism rite with Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding's "These Arms of Mine" personally redemptive inside, politically salvific outside, even if preferring to remain as silently rooted as a mudded newborn tree.
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