.Poetaster

Saw Mill Sonnet

2012-01-30T16:40:00.001-08:00

Oh, Great Perhaps, let me be unafraid
of blind spots, thorny patches, and the stars.
Thank you for things exactly as they are:
Revealed by dawn, or lurking in the shade.
Oh, Great Perhaps, let me be unafraid
of black ice, as-yet-unrequited scars,
pernicious felons dressed as avatars,
and treasure trickling out of bloodied spades.
You are the only deity for me,
and I will send you purple flowers of praise:
for you alone know when to let me be,
and when to send the chilly winds of grace.
Deliver me from pallid normalcy,
and I will live forever every day.

Fits and Starts

2012-01-26T02:48:00.001-08:00

If there were words that shattered locks and chains
or penetrated any earthly gloom,
the poets and the scientists would vie
to isolate them in a petri dish,
or press them in a new anthology.

If there were words that killed bacteria
or rendered every vicious growth benign,
Poetry and science would combine
that much more quickly, and to antiquate
both surgery and rosy platitudes.

If words were seeds robust enough to grow
on any field, in any earthly clime -
if they were sown wherever hunger lived,
in time to fill each empty belly, we
would scorn to ask the planter's pedigree.

Words educate the body, mind, and soul
completely, but in subtle fits and starts.
Words will root out remedies enough
to vanquish misery, and forestall death -
or help us to wrest victories from both.

The Mumble

2012-01-23T02:55:00.001-08:00

Oh God! What if every moment
of every day, eternity mumbles
a message so urgent, but so exclusive,
so elusive, and so reclusive that
almost no one could even hear it,
let alone be trusted to listen?

Oh God! What if all but two
of the fistful of people who
can and would decode the mumble
are lost – too lost in this democratic
cacophony, this harried, worried,
and now unruly mob to concentrate?

Oh God! What if the person who hears
it best – the one who recognized
what it means instantly and completely -
is in some kind of trouble, And I,
who heard it second best,(because someone
has to come in second) but really only
sort-of understands it, am now in charge?

Oh God! What if I am in charge?
Oh God! What if I am in charge?
Oh God! What if I am in charge?

Intonaco

2012-01-18T03:02:00.001-08:00

Everything that is
inspiring -
everything that is
provocative -
began its journey
to the vaulted ceiling
as either a flash
or a memory.

The artist wonders,
as he captures creation
forever in plaster:
What frowns will do
for this feckless chorus?
what's the right face
for original man
as he looks upon God?

He yearns to return
to the work of
liberation,
rescuing heroes -
rescuing gestures
and postures -
from earth made
beautiful by pressure.

So he cheats a little.
He uses the faces
of friends and foes,
when no memory of time
or flash of grace
can help him
unravel the tangle
of history.

Centuries later,
I'm beginning to think
I will never distinguish
a flash from a memory.
We manage to
hew a holiday
from a block of time,
and we go to Italy.

Paintings
make me feel as if
there is progression.
Sculptures
make me feel as if
I can meditate properly.
Frescoes
make me weep from wonder.

Pop Culture Romantica / Tanka Tanka Tanka

2012-01-12T13:09:00.001-08:00

Pop Culture Romantica (A Double Haiku)

"I would knock Ginger
down to get to Mary Ann."
said The Professor.

"Veronica is
just Betty on a bad day."
retorted Jughead.

Tanka Tanka Tanka

Sing along with Mitch,
you woman-hating barflies.
Sing along with Mitch,
and help him pick a fight with
invisible Ray Conniff.

Sing along with Herb,
you poor Tijuana-be's.
Sing along with Herb:
he's way out of your range, but
he leaves the lyrics to you.

Sing along with Pete,
you vague, quixotic lefties.
Sing along with Pete
as he gently walks the walk -
as he bravely walks the walk.

My Heart is Like a Wooden Spoon

2012-01-07T12:31:00.001-08:00

My heart is like a wooden spoon:
It splinters after too much use.
My heart is like a wooden spoon:
It warps and cracks with some abuse.

My heart is like a wooden spoon:
To measure treasure it makes haste –
My heart is like a wooden spoon:
It has no nasty metal taste.

The Close and Holy Darkness

2012-01-06T12:44:00.000-08:00

Sound preceded noise as well as talk.
Sound preceded letters, odes, and oaths.
Nothing, but nothing, preceded Silence:
Silence is the precedent of precedents.

Once, I peered into the velvet darkness,
And I called to my former self.
I said, “Soon-to-be-fatherless child,
The light is the thing you should fear.”

Fear preceded sound, and noise, and talk.
Fear preceded fetters, modes and moats.
Nothing, but nothing, preceded Silence:
Silence knows nothing, but nothing of fear.

Now, I peer into the velvet darkness
And I sing to my frightened soul.
I sing, “Silence will come soon enough:
Silence, and darkness, and peace.”

Are You Sure You Have to Go?

2012-01-04T02:32:00.000-08:00

In the world to come,
nothing is more powerful
than sincere remorse.

in the world to come,
nothing is more durable
that true compassion.

In the world to come,
no one will be capable
of accepting cash.

In the world to come,
no one becomes suspicious
if you do not speak.

In the world to come,
you are only attractive
if you are willing.

In the world to come,
you are never beholden
to the beholder.

In the world to come,
no one is interested
in celebrity.

In the world to come,
everyone is interested
in resolution.

We tell you these things
because you say you have to leave,
but you will try to come back.

We hope you return,
and that you won't object if
we start without you.

A Pack of Blessings Light Upon Thy Back

2012-01-01T14:57:00.001-08:00

Asking why you cannot sleep is just
the same as making sure you never will.
Furthermore, it’s just as well you can’t
access the brute sum of that growing store
a wiser person thought to put aside.
There came a moment in this desperate night
when you realized that you were begging for
the quick resumption of your uphill climb,
and peace of mind - you wanted nothing more.
Someone loves you best, and others think
that you deserve some trust, and warm regard –
Finish up, then take yourself to bed.
Tomorrow, you will find your wits in tact:
a pack of blessings light upon thy back.

Prayer From Two Bleeding Knees

2011-12-31T12:40:00.001-08:00

God who alone grants patience -
God whose patience endures
The grind of endless longing,
The sting of cold betrayal,
And the trauma of blind violence –
Grant that I will expend
Such forbearance as I may muster
To make this terrible moment about
Anything other than me.

God who alone grants focus –
God whose focus endures
While fickle winds level the scaffolds,
Frenzied mobs trample the guardians
And absurdity turns to atrocity –
Grant that I may use a moment
That finds me collected and calm
To listen to what someone says
Instead of just waiting to talk

God who alone is merciful –
God whose mercy endures
Perfidy, larceny, apathy,
corruption, incompetence, arrogance,
parsimony, malice, and fraud –
Grant me the liberation
That can only be found in forgiveness:
Grant me the blessing of a memory
That leads to the future of hope.

A Child's Christmas in Heaven

2011-12-15T03:07:00.001-08:00

When I no longer
Have to worry
That anything will
Happen to you
That will cause you
Pain, or Fear, or Grief;
You will finally
Get to see me dance.

When I no longer
Have to worry
That you will
Hurt yourself, or
Frighten yourself, or
Grieve yourself;
You will finally
Get to see me dance.

When I no longer
Have to worry
That something I
Buried or Discarded
Will erupt into
Pain or Fear or Grief
You will finally
Get to see me dance:

In Gratitude and Ecstasy
That we are free of Gravity,
You will finally get
To see me dance.
To a Symphony composed for me
By Beatitude and Clarity.
You will finally get
To see me dance.

For things may be Divisible,
and Yet remain Invincible.
You will finally get
To see me dance.
For Triangular Morphology,
And Matter’s Immortality,
You will finally get
To see me dance.

Ebeneezer Awake

2011-12-13T03:03:00.002-08:00

Rejoice, you recently enlightened;
you son of no more or less favor
than those you've met, or will encounter.

Rejoice, you who are recently retrieved
from sour and gradual corruption
into the gnaw of death eternal.

Rejoice, although your great relief
that you've been granted one more morning
is tempting you to sleep another hour.

Rejoice. It is First Christmas
every Christmas -
As everybody must remember:

Redemption, swaddled in a manger,
requires tender supervision -
will suffer all things but neglect.

Redemption, heralded by starlight,
is still himself a hopeful ember
requiring skillful visitation.

Redemption, honored by the Magi,
must still be spirited to Egypt
before he starts his storied walk.

2011-12-13T03:03:00.001-08:00

Stay, Thou Art Fair

2011-12-09T03:28:00.000-08:00

The Dowager of Ipanema;
the Mutt and Jeff of Emphysema:
fold me in half,
then fold me into quarters.
Stay, thou art fair:
I'm safe within your borders.

The Sisters' wrath; the Brothers' envy;
the god of all things elementary -
I've seen your worst,
I hope you're feeling better.
Stay, thou art fair:
amazed we're still together.

Atonal instruments in sync
don't sound as bad as you might think.
I've heard the song -
I strain to hear the quiet.
Stay, thou art fair:
you'll thank me if you try it.

Misled, misunderstood Miss Crabtree:
you've had the best, and still want me?
Yet are you here -
my friend in this foul weather.
Stay thou art fair:
amazed we're still together.

Osteopaths and necromancers -
with every cure, another cancer.
I've borne your what:
I'll live through your whatever.
Stay, thou art fair:
amazed we're still together.

The Solitary Dies and Goes to Heaven

2011-12-08T02:24:00.000-08:00

So, the Creche and Crucifix,
the Sages and the Saints,
for all the pain and longing
they exorcise or temporize,
are just supposed to bring me
to this casting off....
So, the chips of sacred wood,
the fragments of tortured bone,
gathered from my pockets,
and placed in my folded hands,
are just supposed to give me
the key to another portal....
So, the maxims that the blessed
chain passed on to me,
and the slogans that the teeming
throng instilled in me,
are just supposed to calm me
as I go into the dark....
So. the death of flesh and bone
is just another incubation;
a kind of excarnation.
So. what was flesh and bone
becomes a sliver of ciborium;
a spatial moratorium;
a temporal arboretum.
So. While I lived, I was frustrated
by a little time in a vast space.
Now, I am consecrated
to a little space for a vast time.
So. Finally. The Beginning. Again.

Last Night I Dreamt of Nothing

2011-12-06T02:27:00.000-08:00

We lose some of our dreams in those first few
seconds of wakefulness: compacted by
the heft of dread, they flatten back into
sub-consciousness; borne on the gust of hope,
they fly out of our grasp, and all over.
Here is a reason to get married : a
spouse will be pressed against you as you come
Awake, whispering into your sleep-creased
Ear, “What did you dream, my Significant
Other, during the too-short night?”

Heaven
Knows a spouse already knows what you
Ate before bed, and what you brought with you,
in the way of snacks and such, to bed: why not
Tell the one who already knows what you
Processed in your guts, and spilled across
The bed clothes, about the plots and sub plots,
The images cast across the inner
Rim of your skull while your mind pretended to
Rest? Someone who loves you in spite of what
You become as you sleep is both

Willing
And able to catch your firefly dreams.
My wife is a little disappointed
This morning – I can always tell ( I am
Always there) when my wife is a little
Disappointed – because I told her that
Last night I dreamt of nothing. Last night I
Dreamt of nothing, and I know it: I did not
Fail to remember a dream - it did not
Slip from my mind’s grip, and head for the tall
Grass to wait. Last night, I dreamt of nothing

Oh! Captive Bound and Double-Ironed

2011-12-05T02:52:00.000-08:00

By Christmas, we were broke and frightened:
We prayed for nobody to notice
That we wore last year’s light-up sweaters.

By Christmas, we were hot and bothered:
To verify that we were walking,
We had the wails of those we trampled

By Christmas, we were tired and testy:
We grumbled when they said, “Good morning!”,
And turned our backs on their red buckets.

By Christmas, we were cold and lonely:
We figured if we simply burrowed,
We’d hardly notice all the parties.

By Christmas, we were in our kerchiefs:
We’d long since given up on Father,
So we just quarreled over fruitcake.

By Christmas, we were Wooden Soldiers:
We conscientiously objected
When Santa tried to activate us.

Next Christmas, we’ll be Jacob Marley:
Our grubby pocketfuls of shillings
Will have become completely useless.

Next Christmas, we’ll be Jacob Marley:
If you don’t want to be accosted
You better send your clerk a turkey.

Next Christmas, we’ll be Jacob Marley:
Oh! Captive, bound and double-ironed,
If you can sleep through this, you’re finished.

Two Poems on One Subject

2011-11-24T08:00:00.000-08:00

I.
Humility
(Note: the poet wishes to write a poem, at long last, about humility, and discovers that humility is itself a poem. He resolves to write the word twice, once as the title of a poem, and once as the body of the poem, but his sense of aesthetics forbids him to do so. He resolves to write the word itself, and leave it alone, without explanation, on the page, but his scrupulousness will not allow him to attempt to publish a poem without a title. At a loss for what to do, but determined to associate himself with the sacred topic, he consults his arrogance, and it is given to him that he should write the word once, compose a parenthetical remark, and write the word a second time. No one learns anything, but to the poet, it kind of looks like a poem. )
Humility

II.
Summa Humilita

Who cannot be faithful will never be humble.
Who cannot be hopeful will never be humble.
Who cannot be loving will never be humble.

Who is not wise is too far from humility.
Who is not just is too far from humility.
Who is not courageous is too far from humility.
Who is not temperate is too far from humility.

Piety's Nursery Rhyme

2011-11-18T03:02:00.000-08:00

Some of the people among us
are liars, and scoundrels, and thieves:
they'll go to Hell for things that they do,
if not for the things they believe.

Some of the people among us
are not quite as bad as I say,
but we believe this, and they believe that,
so they're going to Hell anyway.

Armistice Day

2011-11-11T04:27:00.001-08:00

Ninety years ago, in Flanders Fields,
at the eleventh hour, there was silence.
The young men who would get to be the sires
of generations finally stood down.
Their sons and daughters keep a dreadful watch
for menace, or for signs that peace might hold:
there's little promise in the sullen calm
among those arid dunes and barren hills.
Today was Veterans’ Day. I stayed at home.
I watched the news, and tried to gauge the times:
I worried about jobs and banks and stocks;
I wondered when the new man shows his hand.
Well-fed, and with the wherewithal to fret,
I wallow in a space I don’t defend
with either vigilance or sacrifice.
Last night, I saw ten rows of better men
acknowledging their service, standing tall.
I should not have a moment's peace as long
as I have offered nothing but applause.

Opus Glossolalia (I Say to My Soul)

2011-11-06T17:42:00.001-08:00

Brash, bathetic mendicants
occasion many contretemps
but still, there’s much myopia
in decadent Dystopia:

Wrapped in dark ignominy,
I tune out the cacophony –
until a satisfying hum
pervades the auditorium.

I say to my soul,
“I don’t like you,
and you don’t like me -
but what can we do?

We have to make peace.
We have to be brave
until one of us dies,
and the other is saved.“

I’m a savory fricandeau,
And you’re an impresario:
You calmly sidle up to me,
and I become a fricassee.

I’m the Pasha of Capacious
Carapaces. You’re the ace of
hemispheric glossators:
will you be my barometer?

I say to my soul,
“I don’t like you,
and you don’t like me -
but what can we do?

We have to make peace.
and we have to be brave
until one of us dies,
and the other is saved.“

Rectors, rakes and mountebanks
have crashed the disingenuous ranks
of sated, jaded sybarites,
who only come on Friday nights.

Barflies, gadflies, fly-by-nights
and pixies hold each other tight
while termagants in overcoats
fill colanders with creosote.

I say to my soul,
“I don’t like you,
and you don’t like me -
but what can we do?

We have to make peace.
and we have to be brave
until one of us dies,
and the other is saved.“

Opus Glossolalia:
It smells like Ars Botanica
and sounds like several seraphim
are heckling the Sanhedrin.

Opus Glossolalia:
it’s Kali on the glockenspiel,
while Basho mans the metronome
and Harpo hides the megaphone

I say to my soul,
“I don’t like you,
and you don’t like me -
but what can we do?

We have to make peace.
We have to be brave
until one of us dies,
and the other is saved.“

Spy Wednesday Blues

2011-10-21T13:06:00.001-07:00

One dip into my deep and churning urn of perfidy,
and I'd come up with several friends and lovers to betray -
but I don't have the hour for that sour symphony,
or the rituals of treachery that mark this special day.

It seems that I can't get my mind to labor, or to rest -
It seems there are no vacancies, and quite a while to wait.
It seems I'm aging out of being at my very best:
It seems I'll have to fight to keep this job I've grown to hate.

Today is set aside for a peculiar meditation.
Today's a day it's best to stay away from clarity:
Between the quisling and the quitter, who's more fit for condemnation?
Can selling out and giving up be forms of charity?

It seems that I can't get my mind to labor, or to rest -
It seems there are no vacancies, and quite a while to wait.
It seems I'm aging out of being at my very best:
It seems I'll have to fight to keep this job I've grown to hate.

I dream about Judecca every day for forty nights -
The Fallen One is weeping sheets of ice, and breaking wind.
He never seems to see me, which is why I can't decide
if I am passing through, or there for keeps, as Judas is.

It seems that I can't get my mind to labor, or to rest -
It seems there are no vacancies, and quite a while to wait.
It seems I'm aging out of being at my very best:
It seems I'll have to fight to keep this job I've grown to hate.

My Beatrice is a girl I loved who did not know my mind.
My Vergil is a rumpled sage tobacco could not slay.
My Beatrice says they lie when they say cruelty can be kind,
but my Vergil says revisionists will have the final say.

It seems that I can't get my mind to labor, or to rest -
It seems there are no vacancies, and quite a while to wait.
It seems I'm aging out of being at my very best:
IT seems I'll have to fight to keep this job I've grown to hate.

Fatty Rants at 1010 WINS

2011-10-15T07:12:00.000-07:00

Old dams are waiting for repair
mousy psychopaths lure children
to weddings infanticidal mothers
are acquitted old dams are waiting
for repair Christian soldiers murder
children to protest multiculturalism.

Old dams are waiting to be rebuilt.

Re-hab has ceased to be amusing,
has it not? I thought so.

Rebirth has ceased to be alluring,
Has it not? I thought so.

Reneged, and ceased to be annoying,
Did he not? I thought so.

Old dams are waiting for repair
unlike the currents they suppress
they cannot purify themselves.

Old dams are waiting for repair
They spare the multitudes a watery death
But they do not have the power to heal themselves

Old dams are waiting for repair:
They foment energy to store for rainy days,
but cannot move an inch to save themselves.

America your daughters and sons
are dressed for the beach,
wandering to wherever.

They listen to private orchestras
And provoke one another
In a new sign language

It is a miracle that any of them
find their way home.

America, your daughters and sons
are speeding the wrong way
down the parkway

with aunts, uncles and counselors
who are too out of control
to know that they are out of control

It is a miracle that any of them
find their way home.

The death of objective truth
is what the serpent brought into the garden
–is that fundamental enough for you?

The death of objective truth
is what turned reason into rationalization
– is that method enough for this madness?

America your children are starving
for everything but carbohydrates,
and thirsty for everything
but energy drinks.

They prefer church to Christ,
Politics to church,
And vaudeville to politics
– and even though they don’t know it,

they like Camus best of all:

Just walk beside me and be my friend.

Just walk beside me and be my friend

Old dams are waiting for repair

– please God, not another bloody
reconstruction:

Old dams are waiting for repair.

Art Etc.

2011-10-13T15:29:00.001-07:00

White cells fight fiercely, and kill all the platelets.
Neptune is tugging on Cold Pluto’s shroud.
Conquering heroes will not be prepared for
the bickering tribes in the dictator’s dust.
You are a prophet, and I am a pragmatist.
You’re Nostradamus, and I’m Notre Dame.
I am a Nut Job, and you’re an apologist.
I am a poet, and you are a prude.

Art imitating life imitating
Art imitating life imitating
Art imitating life imitating
Art imitating life imitating

Biology triumphs when movement trumps matter
Astronomy’s sucked into mystery’s Black Hole
All troubadours are themselves entertained by
the shrill siren song of a sour romance.
You’re a collision, and I’m a collection
You’re Galileo and I’m a genome
I’m Greta Garbo to your Anthropologist
I‘m a conundrum and you’re a crusade

Art imitating life imitating
Art imitating life imitating
Art imitating life imitating
Art imitating life imitating

Anatomy quakes like a terrified bridegroom
Cosmology beams at her latest-born son
Bored matadors are sure to be gored by
the prickly contours they now choose to ignore
You are a dickey and I am a diadem
You’re Santeria and I’m Santa Claus
Call me Sinatra, you Australopithecus.
I am the daybreak, and you are the dusk.

Art imitating life imitating
Art imitating life imitating
Art imitating life imitating
Art imitating life imitating

Stimulistless

2011-10-11T17:15:00.001-07:00

There’s never been a good time to be poor,
but there are many fine times to be broke,
and this is one, that’s all. The daily news
is awful for the wise and virtuous:
I wish that I could comfort them with more
than my feckless example, or my fey
and irritating optimism. When
the good man loses everything he has
put aside through thrift and patience, I
would have to be an idiot to say
that he should try to see the hands of God
in his predicament. Thrift and Patience!
Are these not God’s hands? Up until now,
‘twas them that made things possible ‘round here.

Stations of the Cross - XII and XIII

2011-09-29T01:25:00.000-07:00

XII.

A Request:

At midnight, almost everyone goes home,
and for eight hours, I clean candle stands.
When I am not composing maudlin poems,
I speak out loud unto the Son of Man:
“I can tell you anything, I know,
but you are you, so you already see
this sandy soil where your seed was sown:
I believe in everything but me.
For all my bluster, I am terrified
by every other shadow on the wall.
So…I can serve, if I can also hide:
We’ll avoid a score of graceless falls
with one sin of omission. What’s the loss?
and who but you and I will know the cost?”

XIII.

A Response:

“What part of ‘It is finished.’ Is not clear?
Remember me? ’The Light’, ‘the Truth’, ‘The Way’?
Yet every hour of every precious day,
I watch you wallow in your formless fear.
What part of ‘It is finished’ is not clear?
Hope has no fine print. Hope is here to stay.
You cling to terror: just throw it away!
It’s yours to lose, and watch it disappear.
All Commandments rolled up into one
Would sound like this: ’Thou Shall Not Be Afraid.’
He who cannot face up to the sun
will fall for darkness every time. Upbraid
this wicked world: when all is said and done,
by fear and fear alone am I betrayed.”

The Nightmare and Her Ninefold

2011-09-23T07:09:00.000-07:00

I

Nobody knows how
Often these terrible things
Will be repeated,

But somebody is
Maintaining some record of
The occurrences,

And somebody else
Is itching to analyze
The awful data.

II

There is nothing like
Institutional mercy:
Sharked-eyed clinicians

With black fingernails,
Overweening arrogance,
Magazine clippings,

And a great terror
That somewhere in this dungeon,
Scabs begin to form.

III

The police took her
Out of her crazy household.
Her gangsta boyfriend,

Will protect her from
The pre-operative tranny
Who, bluntly, covets

Her horrible life:
Now, who - who - will rescue her
From social workers?

IV

This reminds me of
A time when we were really
In a jam, Larry:

Remember that mad
Osteopath who said that
Deep-tissue massage

Would teach multiple
Fractures a new respect for
Mind over matter?

V

The idiot upstairs
Told a roomful of fragiles
That our tales grow back

The moment we fail
To ignore the awful stench
From the abattoirs -

Then she had the nerve
To send them to me, because
I knew Charles Darwin.

VI

If you are forty
Or over, they believe that
You knew Moses, too.

They figure you can’t be
Older than their grandparents
And younger than dirt,

So they ask you why
The rain can fall and fall and
Never douse the sun.

VII

It gets to a point
Where you don’t even notice
The ambulances:

Maybe someone’s hurt,
Or it’s just another game
Of “Who will blink first?”

You just hope and pray
that you’ll be one of the ones
who gets to blink last.

VIII

If a tree falls in
A forest, and nobody
Is there to hear it,

Then will you leave me
Alone? Or must I languish
Until God creates

A rock so heavy
That God Himself can’t lift it?
We’ll touch base later.

IX

If I had some place
To go, I’d have gone by now –
No need to worry.

I might as well try,
As long as I’m stranded here,
To slip them some sweets.

Make certain that they
Plant every single sapling,
And slip them some sweets.

Nimrod's Lament

2011-09-21T10:55:00.000-07:00

Incorrigible Man,
Who leaves alone nothing;
Man who does not build,
But piles and piles;
Big-headed, dim-witted man,
Leaving his place
To go where he does not belong:
Look at me in my sterile tower -
Far, far from where I was,
Nowhere near where I wish to go -
Calling for help
Loudly and often
To servants who no longer
Understand me.
To servants who no longer
Understand each other.
Look at me, you people
Who are just like me,
Who can think of
Nothing better to create
Than monuments
To self-importance.
Look at me,
If you can still see me.

First Final Things

2011-09-17T06:01:00.000-07:00

How filled with purpose Heaven has to be;
How endless is the emptiness of Hell.
Paradise is all about results,
While Hades is frustration stratified.
The just rewards for my soul’s ceaseless toil
Will be to come to toils prayed-for end.
There are no deadlines pressed upon the damned:
Their efforts are eternally for naught.
How filled with Heaven purpose therefore is:
How filled with Hell these vacant,futile hours.

September 11, 2011

2011-09-11T13:24:00.001-07:00

Ten summers pass. The wreckage and the dust
Are cleared away. The desperate masterminds
Are nowhere to be found as waters fall.

Ten summers pass. The vigil is renewed,
But as of dawn, our guardians report
That terror won’t appall solemnity.

Ten summers pass, and we who were bereft
Acknowledge we have also been improved:
Only the fanatics are the same.

Ten summers pass. The grieving families
Ennoble all of us with their lament:
The honored names intoned, and etched in bronze.

Ten summers pass. The pipes play “Minstrel Boy”;
The choir sings before a tattered flag;
Dignitaries quote from psalms and poems.

Ten summers pass. I say a little prayer
That we won't wait another summer’s course
Before we greet a morning with such grace.

September 11, 2011

2011-09-11T13:24:00.000-07:00

Ten summers pass. The wreckage and the dust
Are cleared away. The desperate masterminds
Are nowhere to be found as waters fall.

Ten summers pass. The vigil is renewed,
But as of dawn, our guardians report
That terror won’t appall solemnity.

Ten summers pass, and we who were bereft
Acknowledge we have also been improved:
Only the fanatics are the same.

Ten summers pass. The grieving families
Ennoble all of us with their lament:
The honored names intoned, and etched in bronze.

Ten summers pass. The pipes play “Minstrel Boy”;
The choir sings before a tattered flag;
Dignitaries quote from psalms and poems.

Ten summers pass, and I am moved to ask:
We will require another summer’s course
Before we greet a morning with such grace?

Sacred Honor

2011-09-10T07:10:00.000-07:00

How do we stand up – we, who came of age
in eras that did not require our blood?
How do we march today, who did not march
when liberty depended on the ranks
of righteous soldiers? What can we proclaim
To loyal sons and daughters who descried
the certain cancers lurking at our core?
We honor those who fought so we could live
by living well: by trying to be good
and honest stewards; offering this soil
to every seedling; shoring up the kind,
and leaving perfidy no place to hide.
May one brave soul, who, in this troubled world,
came much too early to a hero’s grave,
regard my life, and tell Eternity,
“This is how I would have lived myself.”

Because I Knew That I Was Not In Hell - Revised

2011-09-08T12:20:00.001-07:00

Because I knew that I was not in Hell,
I counted days upon my Calendar
of Irish authors – Joyce...O’Casey...Synge...
Brendan Behan’s sad and pudgy smirk
marks my July. I am the only boy
inside this borstal I can help a whit:
not the proper attitude, ‘tis true.
Yet will I do the good that I can do,
before I catch the ferry to the shore.

Because I knew that I was not in Hell,
I made small talk with lovely, angry girls,
and lovely, angry women. Thus, I learned
the secret they employed from day to day,
and that I’d never master it. There’s things
I have the strength to make myself ignore,
but I am poorly suited to denial.
Yet will I do the good that I can do
before I catch the ferry to the shore.

Because I knew that I was not in Hell,
I thought and thought and thought about the things
that they should do, but did not say a word.
It's going to pain me, once I'm far away,
to hear that Plato came back from the dead
to put things right. Now, that is one of two
events I’d like to live to see – too bad.
Yet will I do the good that I can do
before I catch the ferry to the shore.

Because I knew that I was not in Hell,
I knew the voice inside my head was mine,
and not the yawp of one last deep regret
about to be incinerated. Man!
it said, there's much you don't accept,
And while you don’t, you can’t do any good.
Man! it said, you'll never understand,
so wait upon exhaustion for your peace.
Yet will I do the good that I can do
before I catch the ferry to the shore.

Labor Day Sonnet

2011-09-05T15:49:00.001-07:00

By thunder struck, as if a noise sufficed
to make you lose your balance, or your place -
and no one said, “Alas! By lightning spliced!” –
Whence comes the graceless grimace to your face?
How is it that so amiable a slug
Is fretful on this lazy day? Absurd!
Yon sheep, that greeted butchers with a shrug,
Is made egregious by discouraging words?
I watched you through the summer days, agog
That anyone could be so bloody dull:
Now comes September, and you catalogue
The things you wish to do before the fall!
When you behave as if you are aflame,
It means that Labor Day is come again.

The Taxicabs with the Scimitar Medallions - Parts One and Two

2011-09-01T13:02:00.000-07:00

The taxicabs with the medallions
that resemble the medieval scimitar
have no meters or two-way radios.
Their stern and deliberate drivers
will take you to any location
within New York City’s five boroughs,
as far into Jersey as Newark,
in New England, as far as New Haven,
and well into Westchester County
for ten dollars and ninety five cents.

This bargain is fixed as a homage
To A D. 1095:
When The Knights of the Studded Scimitar,
from whom these chauffeurs are descended,
left the humid suburbs of Castoria
to join the Clandestine Crusade.
The Knights were intent upon driving
the Saracens out of Assyria,
the Visigoths out of Carpathia
the Cantalopes from Areola
and the Orioles from Baltimoria

But they sailed into southernmost Europe,
and they lingered in lower Sardinia.
They ate tons of polenta and mussels,
which they sautéed in saffron and cinnamon
and washed down with port and zambuca –
until they got terrible dysentery.
(and this was especially unfortunate,
since their trousers were leather and chainmail.)

Exhausted, and quite dehydrated,
The Knights of the Studded Scimitar
limped into the port of Brundisium,
which was under the fey jurisdiction
of a genial rogue theologian
named Simon the Hairy Apostate.
Simon had seven fine wives,
and each wife gave him one dozen daughters

Simon supported his family
with a fleet of brocaded gondolas
that he leased on a bi-weekly basis
to the Knights of the Gnarly Aorta.
This was a fateful transaction:
The Apostate was using the gondolas
as the bait in his quest to find husbands
for each of seven dozen maidens

But the Knights of the Gnarly Aorta
were a band of discreet homosexuals
who would never be looking to marry,
but were always most willing to ferry
all the wealthy young men of Brundisium
from the docks to the seedy marinas -
as they sang their provocative arias,
and humbly declined to take tips.

Part Two - The Eighty-four Daughters of Simon the Hairy Apostate

Simon the Hairy Apostate had eighty four daughters:
Some of them were completely without warts,
and all of them knew how to stretch the stew.

The prettiest one was Clarissa Sensa Verruca

(Clarissa was also the oldest, But only by three and a half days.)

Clarissa’s sisters, in age order, were:

* Hyacinth the Oblivious ,
* Ermentrude the Introspective,
* Twelve-fingered Cunegunde ,
* Black-eyed Susan, (She was named after the boxer, not the flower.)
* Skippy Marie,
* Diaphynna the Slight,
* Corduroy the Prescient, (named after the song, not the road or the trousers.)
* Joan
* Pandora the Implorer
* Leda the Landlubber,
* Melissa Due Verrucas
* Hyppolyta the Inconsiderate,
* Phoebe With All Those Freckles,
* Weepy Cocoa (also spelt Koko.)
* Simonia Blanche,
* Constance Ad Hoc,
* Patina Offoria
* Serena Euphoria
* Cacapha Euphonia
* Foxy Brown (Names after the color, not the crime-fighter)
* Teresitannofathousanddays, (named after Simon’s sister, not the town in Wales )
* Toeless Deirdre
* Samantha Focaccia
* Diptheria (named after the dance, not the disease.)
* Joan II
* Co-mingla the Mixer
* Cementia the Stable
* Hyjinx (also pronounced Horseplay)
* Carolingia
* Christmas Carolingia
* Pickles Flambeau (What?)
* Suspicia the Cautious
* Clammy Palmyra
* Cyd Charisse 1922-2008
* Hortensia the Alert
* Janice Scott Joplin Tissue
* Bonnanafannafofearly
* Crustaecia Au Jus
* Paradiddle (A rhythm baby)
* Resplenda Sweet
* Joan III
* Fermata
* Ella Fitzmorristown
* Charo Marie
* Headleigh Talullah
* Cornucopia
* Iris Petalstem (pronounced, “Rose”)
* Zippy the Cyclops
* Joan III part two (“Joan Gets Wise”)
* Major Barbara
* Minor Barbara
* Hanna Barbera
* Halla Muffla
* Kiki Deepdish
* Somnambula Defenestra
* Sloane
* Deidre
* Rose E. DeRivative
* Elma Floodgate
* Termagant
* Hillarious Rhonda DeWitt (who blew a free lunch.)
* Morticia Mortui (the last woman to let you down.)
* Clydesdale the Ungainly
* Sloane II
* Sabrina Una Verruca
* Simulacretia Marie (Dad’s favorite)
* Carbonata Saspirilla (Dad’s root beer)
* Margarita Villa Maria (She did well in school.)
* Euphegenia Manbait (She did well after school.)
* Scabby Phyllis (she did well to avoid school.)
* Medea Jean
* Edna Saint Louis Missouri (pronounced “Sappho”)
* Sloane Verrucoso
* Nimble Luanne
* Kahlua Encarta (the drunken Know-it-all)
* Inflatable Adria
* Neolithia Domestica (the Farmer’s Daughter)
* Cammuta Cafeteria
* Dymphna Quattro Verrucas
* Apollonia Kaboom
* Deleteria Anne
* Tinny Alicia
* Sioux C. Queue

Simon had no sons.

Simon also had no walking-around money.

For Casualties and Victims - revised

2011-08-28T10:59:00.000-07:00

I clung to definitions as the void
Of yesterday congealed into today.
Victims of an accident are casualties.
Casualties of a sacrifice are victims.

The future may hold nothing so defined
as empty victory or brave defeat:
It may elect to cultivate a garden
or uproot every other callow plant.

The future may become so spiked by spite
that rushing rivers turn to poison straits.
The future may become too ominous
for oracles and analysts to bear.

The future may become a casualty:
What can I do against the mounting tally
But toss my coin into this feckless fountain,
And call whatever happens, “Will of God”?

The future may be marked by many victims.
What can I do before the reckoning
but throw my weight behind my favorite adage,
and blush if anybody calls me wise?

What can I do against the mounting tally?
What can I do before the reckoning?
What can I do for casualties and victims
save stay on task – like any other wretch?

Furious Wine

2011-08-25T08:18:00.001-07:00

They say the Grapes of Wrath are
stored in vineyards where my
childhood heroes met to
avoid the glare, because they
couldn't face this world of
shame and crime until they
stomped those grapes into
Furious Wine

Furious Wine.

Now there's a man I respect and
he's just said to me, "You know the
Good Book says the truth will
set you free." So I roll my eyes and
and I cry, "Oh, Fine! set me
free, and set me up with
Furious Wine!"

That Furious Wine gives me
curious thoughts about
ulterior motives and the
little men caught with their
minds in the gutter and their
hands in the pie and
Lord! I need another shot of
Furious Wine.....

Oh - don't you care?
Don't you ever wonder
what we're doing here?

Oh - won't you choose -
and don't be afraid
of what you might lose.

I was the King of Thieves, I was
the Thief of Hearts, I climbed
up over the fence and tore
the vinyard apart -
- but in my hasty escape I
trampled over a vine, and now
my footprints are angry pools of
Furious Wine.

That Furious Wine gives me
curious thoughts about
ulterior motives and the
little men caught with their
minds in the gutter and their
hands in the pie and
Lord! I need another shot of
Furious Wine.....

I was a son of a son. I had
a son of my own. He saw
right through my lies, and
ran away from home. Now, he's
the man that I was: a man his
children despise. And I'm the
the man that I am, thanks to
Furious wine -

- and when I part from this vale,
there's going to be a blast
for everybody who weeps,
because I've breathed my last.
The man I respect
will rise in plenty of time,
and say,
"No more hangovers from Furious Wine."

That Furious Wine gives me
curious thoughts about
ulterior motives and the
little men caught with their
minds in the gutter and their
hands in the pie and
Lord! I need another shot of
Furious Wine.....

That Furious Wine gives me
curious thoughts about
ulterior motives and the
little men caught with their
minds in the gutter and their
hands in the pie and
Lord! I need another shot of
Furious Wine.....

Oh - don't you know?
He loves you so,
He'll never let you go.

Oh - don't you know?
He loves you so,
He'll never let you go.

Discover Me

2011-08-23T16:48:00.001-07:00

Here on earth I quake
With my belly full of steak
Broken-hearted,
Crawl across the floor
It 's hard to keep in time
When your brain is soaked with wine
And the Visigoths are knocking at your door
Dicover me-
(She cried wildly)
Break the chain of anonymity
Discover me-
(I called plainly)
Take some notice and set me free. . . .

Here on earth we stand
With our shoes all filled with sand
We have come for miles just to see you smile
You locked us in one room
And you took off on your broom
And we see we 've missed Nirvana by a mile
Discover me
(She called plainly)
Perhaps your camera might be my cure
Discover me
(I called plainly
though I really can 't be too sure. . .)

Let me tell you 'bout her. . . . .
She 's like a thorn that has lost it's rose
She 's all cold and hard;
But she 's got to pose. . . .
And her face just freezes from the way she smiles
And her smile sends chills through her love and mine. . . . . .

Here on earth we kneel
With our shoulders to the wheel-
When will someone else here take this pain?
Don 't you hate the feeling
That the people you are healing
Will just go out and hurt themselves again?
Discover me
(I cried wildly)
Break the chain of anonymity
Discover me
(She called plainly)
Take some notice and set me free. . . . . .
Set me free. . . . . .

You've Been Gone for Eight Years and Five Months

2011-08-22T16:20:00.000-07:00

It is November of 1980, and
The Philosopher says that Love
is the child of Plenty and Want.
You’ve been gone for eight years and five months,

but you’re with me wherever I go -
you're with me at Manhattan College;
you're with me in Philosophy 101;
you're with me at the end of the beginning.

I know The Philosopher is right,
and I've known it for almost nine years:
not because I have come so far,
and yet I have so far to go;

not because there is so much to learn,
and I've burned all the midnight oil;
not even because I am Irish,
and our Tribe is a Terrible Beauty:

I know The Philosopher is right, because
you’ve been gone for eight years and five months,
but you’re with me wherever I go:
“J.R.” stands for “Plenty” and “Want”

Spontaneous Sonnet #2 (How Like A Window into Tepid Souls)

2011-08-15T14:18:00.001-07:00

How like a window into tepid souls
is my third eye upon this turgid night:
more fortune cookie than a Dead Sea Scroll;
more freezer burn than tragic artic blight.
I will not give up my apostrophes
or semi-colons. Let the pundits gripe:
they did not daunt wise Erastothenes
nor did they still the most courageous pipes
of Miss Marianne Faithfull. Let me see -
I know I can be more obscure than this -
I'd take my Cinderella Liberty
if Yoyo Ma would open up for Kiss.
On Lamastide did my Sweet Susan float
out of my reach on filthy Charon's boat.

The Mumble

2011-08-12T12:38:00.000-07:00

Sonnet from Shadows, and from Shreds

2011-08-11T19:01:00.000-07:00

These shadows of ideas and shreds of rhyme
Occur to me, make no sense whatsoever:
I gratefully acknowledge they are mine
And see if I can make them fit together,
It’s surely going to be an awful hour
When I realize that “someday” will be “never” –
But while I live, I try to find the power
To keep my “what’s” from turning to “whatever’s”.
I will be parted from this gorgeous brood:
Color; Music; Perfume; Sweetness; Rest.
Beyond them, I will contemplate The Good -
Eternally. I never will finesse
From shadows and from shreds a finer poem
Than that which I will learn when I come home.

Friends Don't Let Friends

2011-08-09T03:18:00.000-07:00

Friends don’t let friends cruise
along the razor-sharp shores
that hug the porous borders
of Lower Agoraphobia.

Friends don’t let friends lose
the petty cash or the private stash
in the venial casinos
of New Babylonia

Friends don’t let friends know
what friends don’t need to know:
and friends don’t let friends go.
Friends don’t let friends go.

Friends don’t let friends choose
To be hampered by dampers or briers
when the purest desire is to sing
‘round inspiring fires.

Friends don’t let friends bruise
scarred, aching shoulders on boulders
when some timely assistance
might slightly enhance this Resistance.

Friends don’t let friends show
what friends don’t need to show:
and friends don’t let friends go.
Friends don’t let friends go.

Friends don’t let friends use
cold, moldy towels,
diaphanous cowls, too many vowels
or breakaway trowels.

Friends don’t let friends fuse
restraining enjoiners
to courageous deployment
of outrageous rejoinders.

Friends don’t let friends sow
what friends can’t bear to grow:
and friends don’t let friends go.
Friends don’t let friends go.

Denim in the Seventies

2011-08-06T19:09:00.000-07:00

When I was eleven years old in Nineteen Seventy-three,
Every boy sported a denim jacket – except for me.
A contemptible girl in my neighborhood pressed me to tell her why,
And all I could say was “I’m just not a denim jacket guy.”

I had just turned seventeen in Nineteen Seventy-nine,
And I purchased a three piece denim suit. It looked just fine
In the store on the hanger, but awful upon my inflatable frame:
I looked like an eggplant that clung to its vine in an acid rain.

I will turn seventy early in Two Thousand Thirty–two.
I’m going to don a denim sarong, and lounge with my retinue.
I hope there are six of them left when I finally pass away:
Six sturdy souls who refuse to wear denim to mark a lamentable day.

Twenty-four Lines for Kurt Vonnegut

2011-08-01T16:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, we have no horizons:
we are caught once again between
intelligent design and mass hysteria. Yes,

and we have discovered unspeakable
loneliness in both the cells of the idle rich,
and the cellar apartments of their servants.

Yes, we have no bonanzas:
we are likely to remain somewhere
between timid and Timbuktu. Yes,

and a madman’s poison turned our skies
into oatmeal, and our seas into flint,
and we’re too sad to begin again.

Yes, we have no cupolas:
even the self-hating families are dying out,
while every town turns into Ilium. Yes,

and I was destined to discover that
my one true love was done in not by years,
but by thoughtlessness – and so it goes.

Yes, we have no nirvanas:
but let us yet be kind to one another. Yes,
and I hope you are enjoying your

just- afterlife. Yes, and may I suggest a trip
to Mercury, and its caverns of goodness. Yes,
for now you, too – you most of all - are unstuck in time.

Gentle Tried to Float

2011-07-28T09:45:00.000-07:00

Gentle tried to float above
the rancid,ransacked rows
of mangled mistletoe.
From empty esplanades
and cancelled colloquies
came hoary harridans
to storm his hideaway. Still,

Gentle tried to float away
from half-wit happy boys
with frayed and filthy fobs.
Imagination’s Id
pined, pined to punish him:
loathing leniency
and sociopathy: Still,

Gentle tried to float amid
those lithe, limber libertines,
(too quickly quarantined)
co-dependent criminals
and unrequited undulates.
The turgid, tepid waves
swamped tawny denizens
much too tired to swim. Still,

Gentle tried to float around
the coastguard cavalcade.
He braved bald barricades,
and bore belittlement…
because some silly souse
displaced her décolletage:
even dead men gloat. Still,

Gentle tried to float above
the ransacked, rancid rows
of mangled mistletoe.
From empty esplanades
and cancelled colloquies
came hoary harridans
to storm his hideaway. Still!

Sonnet One Three Eighty

2011-07-27T17:29:00.000-07:00

When floods dry up, and hurricanes desist -
when clouds are broken by the welcome sun -
then only does my soul ball like a fist,
to crush from summer every breath of fun.
When crises end, and urgent voices cease
to warn us that the end is surely near,
then only does my anxious pulse increase
until each lifted voice is drained of cheer.
I cannot say why I am out of sync
with merriment, and arm-in-arm with gloom -
and I can only wonder what you think
as I invite you downstairs to my room:
come see my etchings, rest, and have some tea,
while I hold forth on grief and tragedy.

Casualties and Victims - Revised

2011-07-26T15:56:00.000-07:00

I clung to definitions as the void of
Yesterday congealed into today:
victims of an accident are casualties,
and casualties of a sacrifice are victims.

The future may hold nothing so defined
as empty victory or brave defeat:
It may elect to cultivate a garden
or uproot every other callow sapling

The future may become so pocked by violence
that salty rivers turn to poison cisterns.
The future may become too complicated
for analysts and oracles alike.

The future may be marked by many casualties,
and the future may be marked by many victims.
What can I do before the mounting tally
But toss my coin into this feckless fountain?

The future may be marked by many casualties,
and the future may be marked by many victims.
What can I do before the coming moments
but throw my weight behind my favorite adage?

What can I do before the mounting tally;
What can I do before the coming moments;
What can I do for casualties and victims
But stay on task – like any other wretch?

Prayer from Two Bleeding Knees - Revised

2011-07-25T14:26:00.000-07:00

God who alone is patient -
God whose patience endures
The grind of endless longing,
The sting of cold betrayal,
And the trauma of blind violence –
Grant that I will expend
Such forbearance as I may muster
To make this terrible moment about
Anything other than me.

God who alone is focused –
God whose focus endures
While fickle winds level the scaffolds,
Frenzied mobs trample the guardians
And absurdity turns to atrocity –
Grant that I may use a moment
That finds me collected and calm
To listen to what someone says
Instead of just waiting to talk

God who alone is merciful –
God whose mercy endures
Perfidy, larceny, apathy,
corruption, incompetence, arrogance,
vindictiveness, malice, and fraud –
Grant me the liberation
That can only be found in forgiveness:
Grant me the blessing of a memory
That leads to the future of hope.

You Will Finally Get to See Me Dance - revised

2011-07-24T11:33:00.000-07:00

When I no longer
Have to worry
That anything will
Happen to you
That will cause you
Pain, or Fear, or Grief;
When I no longer
Have to worry
That you will
Hurt yourself, or
Frighten yourself, or
Grieve yourself –

You will finally get
To see me dance.

When I no longer
Have to worry
that something I
Buried, or
Concealed, or
Discarded
Will erupt into
Pain or Fear or Grief
For you, or someone
Who will tell you
And anyone else
What I have done –

You will finally get
to see me dance.

You will finally see me dance
In gratitude and ecstasy
That we are free of gravity.

You will finally see me dance:
Beatitude and Clarity
Composed a symphony for me.

You will finally see me dance
For things may be divisible, and
Yet remain Invincible.

You will finally see me dance.
Triangular Morphology
and Matter’s Immortality
have prompted me:
You will finally get
To see me dance.
You will finally get
To see me dance

Fragile Little Time / Happy Birthday, Bill.

2011-07-21T11:26:00.000-07:00

Today is the 50th anniversary of the birth of our beloved friend, Bill Clark.

Please visit the website of the Bill Clark Foundation through the link
on this page, and read about the wonderful things that are happening in
his memory, and through his influence.

We will leave this place of selfish tears,
and search for your monument wherever
it chooses to bloom. Unnecessary
to erect a proper, lifeless headstone when
a splendid, mighty inkling of forever
is already swaying, already beloved,
in some delightful place not far from here:
some fine, new world where appreciation
is unleavened by memory, where you are
always as strong, healthy and beautiful
as on the fairest day of the fragile
little time when we were blessed to love you.

Gibberish Sprinkled with Punctuation (Revised)

2011-07-21T11:22:00.000-07:00

Later on, we hid inside a well
That no one ever comes to for a drink
Unless they’re stopping half the way to hell.
(These bitter comics really make you think
About the things that lurk beneath your shell.)

“Impatient youth”? Impertinent; obscene…
No one, but no one, knows as well as me:
It’s evil not to plan for unforeseen
Developments? So! We’ll just wait and see:
You upstarts will not get to be has-beens.

Intonaco

2011-07-18T02:59:00.001-07:00

For Casualties and Victims, and Prayer from Two Bleeding Knees

2011-07-10T09:50:00.000-07:00

FOR CASUALTIES AND VICTIMS

Yesterday congealed into today,
but not before the dictionary said
that victims of an accident are casualties
and casualties of a sacrifice are victims.

The future may hold nothing so defined
as empty victory or brave defeat:
It may elect to cultivate a garden
or uproot every other callow sapling

The future may become so pocked by violence
that salty rivers turn to poison cisterns.
The future may become too complicated
for analysts and oracles alike.

The future may be marked by many casualties,
and the future may be marked by many victims.
What can I do before the mounting tally
But toss my coin into this feckless fountain?

The future may be marked by many casualties,
and the future may be marked by many victims.
What can I do before the coming moments
but throw my weight behind my favorite adage?

What can I do before the mounting tally;
What can I do before the coming moments;
What can I do for casualties and victims
But stay on task – like any other wretch?

PRAYER FROM TWO BLEEDING KNEES

God who alone is patient -
God whose patience endures
The grind of endless longing,
The sting of cold betrayal,
And the trauma of blind violence –
Grant that I will expend
Such forbearance as I may muster
To make this terrible moment
About anything other than me.

God who alone is focused –
God whose focus endures
While fickle winds level the scaffolds,
Frenzied mobs trample the guardians
And absurdity turn to atrocity –
Grant that I may use a moment
That finds me collected and calm
To listen to what someone says
Instead of just waiting to talk

God who alone is merciful –
God whose mercy endures
Perfidy, larceny, apathy,
corruption, incompetence, arrogance,
vindictiveness, malice, and fraud –
Grant me the liberation
That can only be found in forgiveness:
Grant me the blessing of memory
That I might find the future of hope.

Purgatory Sonnet

2011-07-08T18:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve had enough of eschatology -
I want someone to take me out of here:
Away from him whose wit is sophistry;
Away from her whose beauty is veneer.
I’ve had enough of solipsistic dreams
I’m keen to be awakened, or destroyed
In blankets, sown with insufficient seams,
by bombs that blow before they are deployed.
I‘ve had enough of framing yellowed scrolls
And straining shelves with books I’ll never read -
If they would even place me on their rolls,
How deft in verse-discernment could they be?
I too, am baffled by this bilious heap:
I only hope that now I’ll fall asleep.

Sacred Honor

2011-07-04T10:28:00.000-07:00

Stimulistless

2011-06-19T11:32:00.001-07:00

There’s never been a good time to be poor,
but there are many fine times to be broke,
and this is one, that’s all. The daily news
is awful for the wise and virtuous:
I wish that I could comfort them with more
than my feckless example, or my fey
and irritating optimism. When
the good man loses everything he has
put aside through thrift and patience, I
would have to be an idiot to say
that he should try to see the hands of God
in his predicament. Thrift and Patience!
Are these not God’s hands? Up until this chance,
‘twas them that made things possible ‘round here.

Saw Mill Sonnet

2011-06-15T14:39:00.000-07:00

Hebetude

2011-06-07T10:58:00.000-07:00

I will grieve for the protagonists
of a thousand thwarted stories
until the day I die myself.

It simply never occurred to me
that the light that kept me awake
when I should have been sleeping -

the light that kept me company
when I should not have been alone –
would begin to diminish.

On my knees, inside my skull,
I grope with both hands, but
I cannot find the things I've lost.

All I have discovered
is a layer of dust,
the insinuations of scars,

and that somehow,
something can be lost forever
inside of a noggin.

Once I lied about forgetting:
now the lies are all
I can remember.

I have even forgotten
what it was like
to know it all.

Art, Etc.

2011-06-03T12:25:00.001-07:00

Scratch

2011-05-31T14:56:00.000-07:00

Scratch a liberal, find a fascist.
Scratch a utopia, find an asylum.
Scratch a Representative Democracy,
find everything at once.
Scratch a Democratic Republic,
Find a never-ending tug o’ war.

Scratch a fascist, find a coward.
Scratch an asylum, find a lifeboat.
Scratch a Socialist anything,
find a colorful mess.
Scratch a Communist anything,
find a bleak and somber mess.

Scratch a coward, everybody laughs.
Scratch a lifeboat, everybody drowns.
Scratch a Committee of Consultants,
Find out what happened to all your money.
Scratch every “ism”
As soon as you possibly can.

Because I Knew That I Was Not In Hell

2011-05-31T02:59:00.000-07:00

Because I knew that I was not in Hell,
I counted days upon my Calendar
of Irish authors – Joyce...O’Casey...Synge...
Brendan Behan’s sad and pudgy smirk
marks my July. I am the only boy
inside this borstal I can help a whit:
not the proper attitude, ‘tis true.
Yet will I do the good that I can do,
before I catch the ferry to the shore.

Because I knew that I was not in Hell,
I made small talk with lovely, angry girls,
and lovely, angry women. Thus, I learned
the secret they employed from day to day,
and that I’d never master it. There’s things
I have the strength to make myself ignore,
but I am poorly suited to denial.
Yet will I do the good that I can do
before I catch the ferry to the shore.

Because I knew that I was not in Hell,
I thought and thought and thought about the things
that they should do, but did not say a word.
It's going to pain me, once I'm far away,
to hear that Plato came back from the dead
to put things right. Now, that is one of two
events I’d like to live to see – too bad.
Yet will I do the good that I can do
before I catch the ferry to the shore.

Because I knew that I was not in Hell,
I knew the voice inside my head was mine,
and not the yawp of one last deep regret
about to be incinerated. Man!
it said, you do not understand.
And while you don’t, you can’t do any good.
Man! it said, there’s much you don't accept,
and there will be no peace until you do.
Yet will I do the good that I can do
before I catch the ferry to the shore.

Sacred Honor

2011-05-30T02:49:00.000-07:00

Swimming Pool

2011-05-28T18:28:00.000-07:00

I am certainly delighted for you,
and the man I once was would have envied
your good fortune: a swimming pool of your
own – in ground, no less – deep enough that a
diving board won’t cause you to dash out your
brains. God knows it’s a lot of work to keep
the gunk and dead things from scummying up
the surface, and clogging the shuttered vents.
Those spurting apertures that I enjoyed
stopping with my little fingers: they work
wth the vents to recycle the water,
no? . I say, take that, Heraclitus!, I
know at least one man who steps into the
same water over and over again.

But Heraclitus was talking about
rivers, and we’re talking about your pool.
We’re talking about astoundingly clear
water, dosed with enough chlorine to kill
algae, bacteria, and anyone
who drinks a good deal of it. We don’t mean
the philosopher’s river, that cannot
keep itself alive without taking on
the flotsam and brackish film of the Earth.
That is where they have to do their swimming,
who cannot get themselves a pool, or get
in good enough with the pool people that
they may be invited to dip, or float,
or gather coins at the plastic bottom.

And don’t even get me started about
the beach crowd, so peppered and assaulted
with unmentionable sand that they rinse
off in that source of all filth, the ocean,
or her retarded sisters, the sounds, bays
and tidal straits – why, just about any
puddle of fish urine left behind by
the shifting of Great Pangaea, or the
occlusion of Mythic Atlantis. Don’t
get me started on folks who just managed
to crawl out of the ooze, lounging on the
shore, and daring the tide to give them back
their gills. Who had to try to sun-bathe by
dusk on this Ozone-forsaken planet?

Forgive me for ranting when today is
really about you and your swimming pool!
Forgive me for doing anything to
vex you as June glides into July, as
August gapes like a pizza oven,
and here’s me in my corduroy trousers!
Please don’t listen to those snooty hotel
managers who bray of my trespasses –
tales of furtive, drunken forays over
fences and under tarps. Please ignore those
vicious rumors against my poor sphincter.
Forgive me for anything that might have
landed me in your bad books. I repent:
speak but pool, and I’ll be new baptized!

Blessed be you! And blessed be your pool!
Blessed be the purifying filter!
Blessed be the shiny metal ladders!
Blessed be the bobbing thermometer!
Blessed be the shallows for the children!
Blessed be the shallows for the timid!
Blessed be the deep end for the divers!
Blessed be the deep-end cannonballers!
Praise your pool in the temple cabana!
Praise your pool on the solemn patio!
Praise your pool with our barbecue incense!
Praise your pool with our tinkling ice cubes!
Praised be the suburban Jerusalem!
Praised be the dawn of Eternal Summer!

Let me go swimming, you lucky bastard!
Let me go swimming, you selfish bastard!
Let me go swimming, you arrogant swine!
Let me go swimming, you home-owning shill!
Let me go swimming, or else, I’ll smite you!
Let me go swimming, as per our friendship!
Let me go swimming - you know I’m playing….
Let me go swimming - you know I love you….
Let me go swimming, eleven more times!
Posted by Jay AHHHHHHHHHHRRRRR! at 8:58 AM

City Island, 1983

2011-05-26T09:40:00.001-07:00

City Island, 1983

One night, shortly after you ceased
To be amused, long before I realized
That I no longer amused you, I gave
Myself a pompadour with a bottle
Of Michelob. I danced like Elvis
On the slippery deck of The Booze
Cruise. I snarled in your direction -
You were probably pretending
That we were not together - and I
Crooned, “Am I loathsome tonight?
Could you kill me tonight?
Are you sorry we ever hooked up?”
Now, you are always kind to me -
But my knees are damaged forever.

Gibberish Sprinkled with Punctuation

2011-05-20T13:29:00.000-07:00

Later on, we hid inside a well
That no one ever comes to for a drink
Unless they’re stopping half the way to hell.
(These bitter comics really make you think
About the things that lurk beneath your shell.)

“Impatient youth”? Impertinent; obscene…
No one, but no one, knows as well as me:
It’s evil not to plan for unforeseen
Developments. So! We’ll just wait and see:
You upstarts will not get to be has-beens.

When the Tyrants Shed Their Thugwear

2011-05-19T19:40:00.000-07:00

When the tyrants shed their thugwear,
they shiver in scratchy long johns
as they gather around the stalagmite
where each of them first pricked his finger.

They repeat the intractable oath
that they took long ago (without thinking):
They swear, in exchange for control
over desolate patches and dunghills

to pollute every pool of cool water
and humiliate thinkers and doers -
lest their arid dominions be braced
by the breezes and gales of improvement.

When the tyrants shed their thugwear
they gather in evil’s dry throat
acquiescing once more to scorched earth,
and pledging allegiance to rot.

Spy Wednesday Blues

2011-04-25T16:56:00.000-07:00

Compulsion...Momentum...Resilience

2011-04-13T11:40:00.000-07:00

Compulsion is what
becomes of momentum
when it is wedged
among the edges
of chance and consequence.

Compulsion is what
becomes of resilience
when all it can do
is wait upon deliverance –
yea! even upon redemption.....

By all means,
deal yourself another
hand of solitaire.
By all means,
buy yourself another
month’s forbearance.
By all means,
something has
just got to give...

...or you could give
your "to do" list
a second glance.

Intonaco

2011-04-08T18:10:00.001-07:00

Uncle Balfour

2011-04-06T18:07:00.000-07:00

This is for Uncle Balfour,
who's been dead for a month of Sundays.
This is for Uncle Balfour,
who was all torn apart by wolves.
There weren't any wolves –
he got drunk and fell out a window,
but Aunt June's a pioneer:
so we say,
"..all torn apart by wolves."

This is for Uncle Balfour,
who expired with lots of money.
This is for Uncle Balfour,
who retired ten years ago.
He didn’t really retire –
he was fired for awful behavior,
but Aunt June wants an open-casket,,
so we say,
“Soon, there will be lots of money.”

This is for Uncle Balfour,
Who is nestled in Abraham’s Bosom,
This is for Uncle Balfour,
Whose suffering has come to an end.
There wasn’t any suffering,
And there isn’t any insurance;
He didn’t know what hit him,
And he never saved a dime:
But Aunt June is a decent egg
Who remembers us every Christmas –
So, Godspeed to you, Uncle Balfour:
How bad could you have been?

Photosynthesis - A Spontaneous Rondeau

2011-03-28T16:29:00.000-07:00

If I declared that sun and rain
was all I needed to maintain
my bottom line, you would be sure
that I had finally gone insane.

Multiple incomes; sweat and strain;
the stoicism to abstain:
by these great lengths, I might secure
some photosynthesis.

Another fellow may complain
that even as his treasure wanes,
collectors gather at the door,
take what he has, and cry for more.
I only wish I could attain
to photosynthesis.

Delighted

2011-03-14T10:57:00.001-07:00

“If priests can be defrocked,
can electricians be delighted?”
- George Carlin

There are fifteen fabulous things about illumination:
Your shins do not become as bloodied;
Your eyeglasses might not blind you;
You don’t have to go by hearsay;
You can wear matching shoes if you wish;
You see that your bed is where you left it;
Only an evil genius can affront you;
Only a healthy brigand can assault you;
Mammals will warn you with their lumbering;
Birds must fly higher to soil you;
Fish go their way, and you go yours;
The bushes are just the bushes;
The Bushes are just the Bushes;
The road need not rise up to meet you;
A few things are beautiful;
Everything is interesting.

Notes on Ships that Pass in the Night

2011-03-12T12:22:00.001-08:00

ONE !

Surely the idea is to pass. Pass
As slowly as you like, as if
You are thinking about stopping
But never stopping - never,
Ever ceasing to pass

Touching is not passing.
Rubbing is not passing.
Ogling and leering,
While neither touching
nor rubbing, are much
too provocative for passing.

I swam the English Channel wearing
Carmen Miranda’s headdress; toting
Mount Rushmore, wrapped in
bungee cords that were connected to a
bridle that I clasped in my teeth: anything –
anything at all – to keep my mind off of sex.

I used my eyes to send semaphore signals
to the good people of Dunkirk, assuring
them that the looming Leviathans were
presidents in distress, And not the Committee
for Public Morals: Anything – anything at all –
to keep my mind off of sex.

TWO!!

Surely the idea is to remember. Remember,
So that cold night be not unbearable; so
that true north be not smothered by the dark.
So you might oil the gears in the coming
dry times with an unsullied memory.

Fantasy is not memory. Fantasy
is what happens when the
mind is not policed by proper,
joy-killing piety, and
memory is ravished by
lean, rapacious impulse.

I read Remembrance of Things Past
Swaddled in down quilts and
goofy with epinephrine, so that I might
affect the prissy hypochondria of
Proust himself. Anything - anything at all –
to keep my mind off of sex.

I directed twenty-eight teenagers in
three amateur productions: 12 Angry Men,
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, And of course,
The King and I. Then, I scoured the karaoke bars
Looking for Parsifal. Anything – anything
At all – to keep my mind off of sex.

THREE!!!

Surely the thing is to resume. Resume
The racing pace of a life made
hectic by rituals that are really just
glorified habits – and why is that
such a bad thing, Great Stately Vessel?

Denial is not resumption
Denial is no more resumption
than obsession is admiration
Denial is a coward’s courage –
sez I, in passing…..

I led Hercule Poirot, Charlie Chan,
and Encyclopedia Brown to believe
that Peter Parker, Bruce Wayne
and Clark Kent stabbed me eight
times each: Anything – anything at all
– to keep my mind off of sex.

I beat the crap out of Ronald McDonald;
Emmet Kelly; Charlie McCarthy; Jerry Mahoney –
You know what it’s like to be surrounded by idiots?
I know what it’s like to be surrounded by unconscious
Dummies and clowns: anything - anything at all –
to keep my mind off of sex.

Jackie Gleason: Part Four - Melancholy Serenade: I - XII

2011-03-02T17:42:00.000-08:00

MELANCHOLY SERENADE: I – XII

I.
You’re the only girl for me –
and I’m always terrified
that you’ll find somebody new:
Melancholy Serenade.

II.
I may not leave you a thing
but my mortifying love,
and a suitcase full of dreams:
Melancholy Serenade.

III.
I want you to be at home –
And invisible besides –
till you have to bail me out:
Melancholy Serenade.

IV.
It is true that I’m afraid
Of the lean and hungry hounds -
Till they dare to look at you:
Melancholy Serenade.

V.
If they let me be the boss
for a minute, or a day,
I’d cement you to my side -
Melancholy Serenade.

VI.
I have heard a man is rich
If he has a single friend:
I have two within my roar -
Melancholy Serenade.

VII.
I’m astounded that you stay
As I dare you to depart:
It’s a happy man who grins -
Melancholy Serenade.

VIII.
We are living in an age
When it’s cheaper to be dressed
like an outlaw than a king -
Melancholy Serenade.

IX.
You can choose to be a child,
Or refuse to pay the rent,
But you must address the ball -
Melancholy serenade.

X .
If the music’s good and loud,
there’s a Mambo in me yet –
or perhaps a Hucklebuck:
Melancholy Serenade.

XI.
Added to the growing list
Of the things I think I know:
“What you ever saw in me” –
Melancholy Serenade.

XII.
If I take this bitter pill
With a saucer full of milk
I can stand up straight again –
Melancholy Serenade.

Jackie Gleason Part Three: NORTON!

2011-02-28T16:31:00.000-08:00

III. NORTON!

NORTON! Thou shouldst be living at this hour!
NORTON! Thou hast more wit to stand alone
than all the foils who rode thy wake to glory;
NORTON! Gentle Light and Friendly Neighbor:
A Ray of Sun Behind the Moonfaced Moon.

NORTON! I sing my song for thee as well,
for who can sing of Ralph, and not of thee?

NORTON, who lives one flight upstairs with Trixie;
NORTON, who always enters without knocking,,
and all too often bears a cruel rebuff;
NORTON, who always starts from Swanee River,
and punctuates each elegy with tears -

NORTON! I sing my song for thee as well,
for who could sing of Ralph, and not of thee?

NORTON! Horatio to Kramden’s Hamlet.
NORTON! Lithe and guileless – as if Abel
had lived to rain forgiveness down on Cain.
NORTON! Beowulf was never braver
confronting filthy depths and wounded beasts!

NORTON! I sing my song for thee as well,
for who could sing of Ralph, and not of thee?

NORTON, you are a goofy, vested angel.
NORTON, you are the Raccoon of the Year,
but not for a want of better offers.
NORTON, I’d put up with your garbled logic
to have you by my side as Hell’s Mouth yawns.

Norton,
I sing my song for you as well -
for who can sing
of glorious timing
and hairbreadth escapes;
of low comedy
and high fidelity;
of what it means to be men,
and what it means to be friends -
for who can sing of Ralph,
and not of thee?

Jackie Gleason Parts One and Two

2011-02-26T19:18:00.000-08:00

I. I Sing of Volume

I sing of Volume the Great and Glorious
in all his hilarious manifestations!

I sing of Volume the Ham-fisted Eminence,
lumbering and thundering through every circle of chaos!

I sing of Volume the Charismatic!
He mugs! He moans! He rolls his mighty hips!

He throws himself around like a luckless wrestler!
He expands and contracts like a windsock looking for love!

I sing of heart-heated air that billows like steam
from the mouth of every well-meaning blowhard:

Who can say it does not spin the Earth?
Who can say it is not one more gasp of the Big Bang?

I sing of liberating wind that fills my lungs
just before I laugh at my lesser self.

I sing of that gorgeous, agonizing moment
just before you laugh at what I did.

I sing to the strains of Music
that tears me to bits.
Music a hair away from smarmy.
Music to frame the flighty effort.

Music to soothe the shattered heart.

Music to herald the approach of Tragicomedy.

I sing of my Power of Example;
my First and Enduring Muse;
Mentor of a Thousand Clowns;
Black Irish Falstaff;
Deep- DEEP - fallen Cherub;
Rubber-faced Rascal with a Dancer’s Soul....

....with a dancer’s Poor Soul.

I sing of the self-proclaimed Great One:
Rum Dum; Joe the Bartender;
Charlie Bratton; Fenwick Babbit;
Minnesota Fats; Gigot;
Reginald Van Gleason III;
Kramden the First and Only –
Peerless, timeless RALPHIE BOY!!!!!!

I sing of Herbert John Gleason:
Jackie the Unrepentant;
Jackie the Epically-Flawed;
Jackie the Unalloyed;
Jackie the Grand High Exalted Mystic Ruler;
Gleason - Gliding Jackie –
Of you I sing.

And away we go!!!!!!!

II. Away We Go....

Away we go from fatherless boyhood.
Away we go from hapless adolescence.
Away we go with absurd optimism.
Away we go with a bellyful of talent.

Away we go to the Tenement Temple.
Away we go to the sacred blocks of Bensonhurst.
Away we go to the Hong Kong Gardens.
Away we go on the Madison Avenue Bus.

For love makes a man stronger than terrible odds,
and love makes a man better than grinding ignominy,
and love makes a man braver than limitless vaudeville,
but only a hunger for love makes him reach.

Love makes a man larger in the multitude’s memory,
and love makes a man grander than a Fortunate Son,
and love makes a man wiser than a Father Confessor,
but only a hunger for love makes him real.

Away we turn to the listless titans of industry.
Away we turn from a miserable bitch of a mother-in- law.
Away we go with our brash,implausible dreams.
Away we go into a glorious,improbable dance.

Away we go to the fights and Playhouse Ninety.
Away we go to Minnesota, and the smoky pool hall.
Away we go to the other side of the gaudy curtain,
to face the ancient cameras unprepared.

For love makes a man stronger than terrible odds,
and love makes a man better than grinding ignominy,
and love makes a man braver than limitless vaudeville,
but only a hunger for love makes him reach.

Love makes a man larger in the multitude’s memory,
and love makes a man grander than a Fortunate Son,
and love makes a man wiser than a Father Confessor,
but only a hunger for love makes him real.

Away we go to Toots Shor and Jack Dempsey.
Away we go to Miami on a ragtime choo choo
Away we go to the triple dipple bypass
with a drag off the next cigarette.

Away we go from peerless Audrey Meadows
to Alice after Alice after June Taylor Dancers.
Away we go due to something called demographics.
Away we go with only the pantomime of terror –

For love makes a man stronger than terrible odds,
and love makes a man better than grinding ignominy,
and love makes a man braver than limitless vaudeville,
but only a hunger for love makes him reach.

Love makes a man larger in the multitude’s memory,
and love makes a man grander than a Fortunate Son,
and love makes a man wiser than a Father Confessor,
but only a hunger for love makes him real.

Fits And Starts

2011-02-25T08:49:00.001-08:00

Age Before Beauty

2011-02-23T06:40:00.001-08:00

Age is a gossip
who casts bad light
on mere distance.

Age is the Village Idiot,
menacing you
with his memory stick.

Age is the vampire of energy,
and he leaves you two goggles
into your hollowed husk.

Today, it suits me to spare
my bored and hostile charges
the plan I have pressed in this book.

Today, it suits me to make
what I may of what I was and
take it wherever it leads.

I demand silence,
and I pretend that
I have been obeyed.

I clear my throat, and
I say, "Once, when I was
even younger than I am now..."

Pop Culture Romantica and Tanka Tanka Tanka

2011-02-20T05:06:00.000-08:00

The Close and Holy Darkness

2011-02-17T11:08:00.001-08:00

Sound preceded noise as well as talk.
Sound preceded letters, odes, and oaths.
Nothing, but nothing, preceded Silence:
Silence is the precedent of precedents.

Once, I peered through the velvet darkness,
And I called to my former self.
I said, “Soon-to-be-fatherless child,
The light is the thing you should fear.”

Fear preceded sound, and noise, and talk.
Fear preceded fetters, modes and moats.
Nothing, but nothing, preceded Silence:
Silence knows nothing, but nothing of fear.

Now, I peer into the velvet darkness
And I sing to my frightened soul.
I sing, “Silence will come soon enough:
Silence, and darkness, and peace.”

Purgatory Sonnet

2011-02-16T12:33:00.000-08:00

Fat Kitchen

2011-02-09T10:41:00.001-08:00

Fat Kitchen useless -
we don't have a lot of silver;
Fat Kitchen pointless -
we don't have the breath to talk.
Fat Kitchen,
we begrudge the shadow of palm,
but you can have what you can carry
in your belly or your mouth.

Every thought I have is smothered by an urge,
and every urge I have is louder than a voice:
a willingness to let un-nature take its course.
Un-nature takes its course.
Un-nature takes its course.

Fat Kitchen worthless -
what's the point in room for storage?
Fat Kitchen pointless -
and I wish you glutton's luck.
Fat Kitchen,
we have heard your threats and accusations,
so your mission is accomplished:
would you leave us eat in peace?

But every voice I hear I easily dismiss,
and each dismissal helps me sleep another day:
a willingness to let un-nature have its way.
Un-nature has its way.
Un-nature has its way.

Fat Kitchen peerless -
rhetoricians at the window.
Fat Kitchen fearless -
and in luxury beware.
Fat Kitchen,
where's the girl who offered me the oysters?
She said, "Come back before Twelfth Night
when I have a spoon to clean."

Every thought I have is smothered by an urge,
and every urge I have is louder than a voice:
a willingness to let un-nature take its course.
Un-nature takes its course.
Un-nature takes its course.

But every voice I hear I easily dismiss,
and each dismissal helps me sleep another day:
a willingness to let un-nature have its way.
Un-nature has its way.
Un-nature has its way.

Ballad for Lilting Tongues

2011-02-06T17:25:00.000-08:00

We sleep when we can and we work when we must.
Our jobs only seem to have little to do
with our hopes and our dreams until we explain
that we hope in and dream about things yet unborn.

We pine for The Winter until it confounds us.
We pine for The Summer until it surrounds us.
We speak of Our Dead as if they were all in the next room –
And nobody knows us who doesn’t know that’s what we do.

The best we can say about things as they are
is that someone made sure they were not carved in stone.
The less that we say about who is to blame,
the better our chances for putting things right.

We pine for The Winter until it confounds us.
We pine for The Summer until it surrounds us.
We speak of Our Dead as if they were all in the next room –
And nobody knows us who doesn’t know that’s what we do.

We can't stand the noise, but we won't call the cops.
We cannot save money. We cannot lose weight.
We come two hours early, and park three miles away.
We trade time for money, and buy things on time.

We pine for The Winter until it confounds us.
We pine for The Summer until it surrounds us.
We speak of Our Dead as if they were all in the next room –
And nobody knows us who doesn’t know that’s what we do.

We cannot remember what we learned in school,
but we're sure we learned more than they teach our kids now.
We troll our poor memories to seek out old haunts,
but we never completely recapture the thrill.

We pine for The Winter until it confounds us.
We pine for The Summer until it surrounds us.
We speak of Our Dead as if they were all in the next room –
And nobody knows us who doesn’t know that’s what we do.

First it's late in the day; then the night is still young:
my first inclination is rarely my best -
but there's always enough space to turn things around,
and there's usually time for a deep, cleansing breath.

We pine for The Winter until it confounds us.
We pine for The Summer until it surrounds us.
We speak of our dead as if they were all in the next room -
and nobody knows us who doesn't know that’s what we do.

When the Tyrants Shed Their Thugwear

2011-02-05T11:32:00.000-08:00

Opsimath

2011-01-30T12:25:00.001-08:00

Granted, had I died at six years young,
I would have learned to tell time late in life -
and had I bought the farm at twenty-five,
I never would have learned to disagree.
I am not the only one who feels
that television keeps much more from me
than it has taught me. Still, I hold my tongue:
placing blame is abdication - right?
Lately have I learned to hold no grudge.
Lately have I learned that I'm as young
this moment as I'm ever going to be....
you should live so long, my angry friend.
And if I live forever, actually,
I am something of a prodigy.

One, Maybe Two

2011-01-23T16:18:00.001-08:00

I was not moved
by the courage of an ancient priest,
or the piety of an old acquaintance.

I was not moved
by a few well-spaced stars
in the galaxy of lacquered pews.

I was not moved
by a wedding gown,
jutting from the mouth of an empty tomb.

I was not even moved
by memories of my dancing parents
or visions of my birthday girl as a newborn.

I was only moved - carried from
the new home to the old home,
early one wet spring morning,
- by guilt and fear.

I was alarmed
and beside myself with dismay,
that one, maybe two
people might be mad at me,

because I did the right thing
incorrectly, or indiscreetly –
because I was unable to intuit
what I should have been told.

Ashamed and convinced,
after all this time,
that one, maybe two
people could cease to love me,

because there is no excuse
for a lack of omniscience –

because there is no coming back
from a fit of candor.

Are You Sure You Have To Go?

2011-01-08T10:10:00.001-08:00

Ebeneezer Awake

2011-01-01T07:49:00.000-08:00

Oh! Captive, Bound and Double-ironed

2010-12-30T11:50:00.000-08:00

Fragile Little Time

2010-12-12T12:01:00.001-08:00

We will leave this place of selfish tears,
and search for your monument wherever
it chooses to bloom. Unnecessary
to erect a proper, lifeless headstone when
a splendid, mighty inkling of forever
is already swaying, already beloved,
in some delightful place not far from here:
some fine, new world where appreciation
is unleavened by memory, where you are
always as strong, healthy and beautiful
as on the fairest day of the fragile
little time when we were blessed to love you.

Piety's Nursery Rhyme

2010-12-09T11:05:00.000-08:00

Stay Thou Art Fair

2010-12-02T18:32:00.000-08:00

There's Nothing Left

2010-12-01T18:06:00.001-08:00

If and his brother Yet
will only be in town forever:
that's time to fight,
but not to plan.

They're barely speaking,
but their playing c-low
for my coffers:
whoever loses will be mad.

But madder still -
(I hold my breath...)
as mad as hell;
as mad as death -
will be the winner
when he finds there's nothing left
There's nothing left.

Temptation and her sister Pride
are giggling in the corner:
so smug that they
were asked for proof

And from the lofty perch
of just before the service entrance,
they're sending pitchers
to my booth.

Pride wins the toss.
I see her rise,
but when she looks
into my eyes,
she tells her sister,
"Never mind: there's nothing left."
There's nothing left.

Safe Harbor's
wicked sister Storm
has come into my dreams,
and she is driving me insane.

Compassion's
dimwit Uncle Pity
fills my purse with adverbs,
and wonders why I curse his name.

Safe Harbor lives
in blessed dark.
Compassion lurks
in Central Park,
and cries, "You're absolutely right:
there's nothing left."
There's nothing left.

I Just Thought We'd See More of Each Other

2010-11-30T14:28:00.000-08:00

Ten eyes have I trusted in all my blind spots.
Ten ears have I bent when I thought I was lost.
Five souls have I trusted to keep me from losing my own:
I just thought we’d see more of each other.

I am slugging it out in the tar pits.
I slip in and out of a wormhole yea big.
Clairvoyants on jetpacks send emails in Latin -
But that’s neither here nor there.

It’s all perfectly fine, since I’m perfectly fine:
I know who I am after all of this time -
I just thought we’d see more of each other.

Ten hands have I clasped in the undertow.
Ten shoulders I’ve climb when the walls were too smooth.
Five hearts have a rhythm that somewhat resembles my own:
I just thought we’d see more of each other.

I am orbiting dubious planets:
I’m attracting a few satellites of my own,
but the ones who are sane are too harried to see
that I’m neither here nor there.

It’s all perfectly fine, since I’m perfectly fine:
I know who I am after all of this time -
I just thought we’d see more of each other.

Eyes Look Your Last - Part One

2010-11-29T17:18:00.000-08:00

Punk Rock Girls,
wearing nothing but kilts,
studded leather belts;
and chain mail. Punk Rock Girls
eighteen to twenty one years of age,
and smelling of Ivory Soap –
hover over my head this
Saturday morning as I try
To read Thomas Merton
on the Downtown Local.

A Retired Anthropologist
rides a bicycle through the woods
on his eighty-third birthday.
He stops to tell me a story
from his terrible childhood.
Then he tells me a story
of his stint in the Merchant Marine
Then he recites
Shakespeare’s 29th Sonnet –
pronouncing “deaf” as “deef”.

The Ecuadorian handyman
From the school where I teach
Asks me if I like the new principal
As he hangs blood red wallpaper
In my mother’s living room.
I tell him I do, silently marveling
That he doesn’t have to watch
What he’s doing. He smiles,
Serenely, and says, “You know what:
A new broom sweeps really good.”

In 1970, my mother’s aunt –
My beautiful Auntie –
is watching me for the day.
She pours me a lukewarm coke,
And introduces me to her uncle.
He waits until she is out of earshot,
he calls me to his side, and he says,
“I killed one hundred men, and
I drank their blood from their skulls.”
Then he falls fast asleep.

An emaciated, hollow-eyed man
Paces the Cathedral steps,
Handing out pamphlets.
He says over and over,
“God is love, and only love:
This is what I used to preach
In 1938, when the Coglinites
Would beat me up, and the police
Would do nothing to stop it.”
I can't bear to chase him away.

She is lovely, and petite,
and as mad as the seven seas.
She is also what was
Once called easy. We hang out –
For the most part – until her
Insanity makes me feel
As if I am in a coffin,
And her tall tales swipe
What air there is to breathe.
She insists that we split the check.

Cano the Dirty Dog

2010-11-28T17:15:00.001-08:00

Cano the Dirty Dog sits
in the breakroom, eating
someone else's sandwich,
dreaming about
an unmade bed, and one third
of a bottle of
Jose Cuervo.

Cano the Dirty Dog lurks
in the lobby, shaking
loose change from those
large wooden boxes
planning for
retirement to dominoes
and scratch tickets.

I have a dozen jobs
and less than
two hundred dollars,
but I vaguely remember
that categorical imperative -
and I'm going to
write a novel.

Cano the Dirty Dog hides
in the boiler room, trying
on everyone's overcoats.
Meanwhile, the rector
and a gaggle of deacons
shovel his share
of the blizzard.

Cano the Drity dog has
neither neck nor thighs: his
squishy, hairy back slopes
from his cranium
to his tibiae.
He pretends not to hear
the little he understands.

I have gained back just ten
of the thirty pounds I lost.
One of my chins is
barely visible when
I am clean-shaven.
I am also very tall, and people
say I have beautiful eyes.

Cano the Dirty Dog views
this cold world through
mint-tinted, snot-crusted,
milk bottle glasses.
He is sweeping rose petals
and rice from the aisle:
a hearse is about to arrive.

I tell Cano the Dirty Dog
that he had to hurry -
but I'm just bringing him
a message from the boss,
"Somebody big is about to be buried:
someday, that somebody big will be me."
Cano stops sweeping, and grins.

Dead Friend

2010-11-27T18:08:00.000-08:00

We are delighted
at the news that your dead friend
has resurrected.

Let's introduce him
to our dead friend this weekend,
and see what happens.

The Nightmare and Her Her Ninefold

2010-11-26T12:05:00.001-08:00

MILLENNIUM 3; Chapter Seven, Verses 1-42

2010-11-22T14:03:00.000-08:00

The President alights from Air Force One,
declaring we will see things to their end.
An Ancient Warrior stands before the House,
demanding no more good blood after bad.
Attorneys conjure ways to stand by both.
Meanwhile, on the Fertile Crescent, One
of five suicide bombers fails to die:
a woman who desired to be a martyr
must be content with widowhood I know
that when the pundits drag themselves to bed
they hear what I hear: fight them here or there,
fight them now or later, Our victories
are guaranteed to multiply with time
until we can no longer bear to win.

Scopes was eighty years ago, and still
the know-it-alls remain hopelessly split:
either Charles Darwin, spoiling in the cool
of God’s laconic shadow, or the Blind
Disciples who Remember Genesis
As it was Read to Them in Sunday School.
Perhaps the best-fed people on the Earth
could figure out a way to feed the poor
before it tackles How We Came To Be.
At any rate, if you will sheath your swords,
I’ll give you each a magnifying glass
and you could use your strong, self-righteous light
to search for villages of missing girls.

The Saints are all exhausted, but the thugs
are spry enough to run from packs of dogs.
The Saints are all exhausted, and the stork
cannot be lured into the feathered nest.
The Saints are all exhausted, while the sleek
and bloated cynic picks away the scab.
The Saints are all exhausted, and a judge,
forbidden to believe in anything,
is fixing to evict them from their beds.
The Saints are all exhausted. You may search
for all the things you’d like to run across,
but I must deal with everything I find.
I put them in two boxes on my desk:
what I can change, and what I must accept.