Does anyone know how to find that spot
way down by his heel
where the binding holds him up
in defense against
his own limitations?

Having lost his heart
and sold his soul
he’s a loser,
yet also a master of resurrection.
He knows how to “win” like no other,
a boxing aficionado
a P.R. genius
a brand maker and breaker
a heist on the truth
a master manipulator
the master performer of himself.

Where is that spot, though,
at the delicate far edge of his soul?
The place where the whole house
of golden, orange cards
falls?

And how might he come down?
His tall,
bordering-on-obese frame.
Will his knees become weak and buckle?
Will his hands reach out reflexively,
bracing for the fall?
Yes, let’s imagine it.

…The man
on all fours now
met by the earth,
his head lowered,
in shame
in contrite defeat.
Stripped of ‘Master,’
here, on this precious earth,
face to face with the great mother,
he meets the great arbiter of life and death:

She who humbles visions of grandeur,
whose power we have all too easily forgotten
in the building of our own towers.

What (hu)man among us does not need to know this fate?
Today.
Today when there is so much at stake?
What man does not need to know what it is to fall to his knees in defeat?
To say “I thought I understood,
but I see now, how very much I don’t know,
how much I have forsaken.”

There, braced on the ground,
in sacred defeat,
it is clear that it is not just a God
in the sky
we fall to our knees
to meet.
It is the earth beneath our feet
the immanent, generous earth that provides
– without rent or restraint –
just as our mother’s body gave us our first taste of life
— the very cells on our backs.

Everything has become too high
Too big
Too tall
Too focused on reaching the heavens.
Trump Tower Moscow
Should never be built.

Nothing should be built.

Rather –
clear the space
for a humble patch of ground
where the knees of men
can buckle.

Shot in the heel,
by the arrow of this truth,
those men who reach for the stars
can fall there.
Bring them to the grass, the hungry soil,
and the wildflowers that still bloom
on California’s hills.
Bring them to the oceans, roiling their crashing waves,
stronger than any spin or branding,
and taller than any Trump Tower or human tall-tale.

Bring them to these soils and the seas where
they will find only the arms of love,
a welcome upon return
offered by a home we have long forgotten.
Here, in this embrace,
what else is there to do but offer our deepest reparation.

It is well beyond time, now, to return and repair.
In death, you, too, will fall, Mr. Trump.
Return to the far more powerful source of your existence.
The one that is not paid for in cash or credit.
The one that knows the ‘spot’ because she created it.

Come down then
from those ‘great heights’
to the
powerful
feminine
shape
of your real
maker.

The roiling oceans are Love in disguise,
they will gladly receive your tears,
welcoming them
as amends.

“Achilles was invulnerable in all of his body except for his heel because, when his mother Thetis dipped him in the river Styx as an infant, she held him by one of his heels. Alluding to these legends, the term “Achilles’ heel” has come to mean a point of weakness, especially in someone or something with an otherwise strong constitution.” Wikipedia