'Be Ye Perfect'

A life-coach told me,
"you're perfect right now."
So I tried perfection for a day
but it was boring.
After all, God is already God,
but who would be Me
if I didn't keep fucking things up
in my own peculiar way?
My blemishes define me,
jagged edges are the letters
of my true name.
Call me Broken Buddha,
the Half-Awake.
This universe just wouldn't
be the same without my sins.
I am more priceless uncut,
a ruby in the mud
that looks like a fallen berry,
the gem of surprise!
Here's the sign of progress:
I'm even less perfect now
than I was yesterday.
I dedicate this poem
to you, my dear,
who discovered the hot mess
of your body on the kitchen floor
slobbering your tears
into the linoleum
while Good Morning America
bled out in the living room.
I honor the unconditional
catastrophe of your hair,
your crow's feet, the droop
of your udder destruction,
the warm spreading mystery
of your wounded smile.
You have blossomed
in the compost of uprooted plans
and wasted seeds of possibility.
No matter how deeply
you scatter, you germinate.
No matter how far you fall,
you are caught.
You plunge into the Hug
that was always already here.
We could hug each other
like that.


Anne's Photos: 'Lovely Dead Crap Still Life'