Those vices I dropped like rhinestones
on the starry path to respectability
become diamonds when he whispers "tonight"
when he reaches out to my child weary flesh
-unwillingly- I will respond but.
I cannot shrug off the dishes and bills
the stain on the floor where the cat bled
the un-watered plants;
how many times have I written these lines?
Ah God…even my most poignant moments
have become mundane -
like the Taj Mahal must appear
to the beggar on the steps
selling downloaded pictures
in the shadow of holiness.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 4:37 AM UTC
All those pretty boys and girls
in Utah with perfect families
and straight teeth and
golf weekends and BYU
I wanna be a Latter Day Saint:
faith like a gorget keeping
holiness inside and sin without,
my eyes turn blue contemplating sainthood
In the south they shout in tongues
they have a private line with the devil
and he lurks in the hearts of
Communists and liberals he says.
I wanna be a born again Baptist
full of hellfire and moonshine
fundamentally patriotic and God
looking down every day at my white hot purity
It’s a good day to be a Baptist my friend.
My Catholicism is a ragged old red robe
seams dragging through the dust
of old men’s prayers and smelling
of my grandmother’s face powder
even when she died.
In the end the rain washes over the berms
of every river not only Jordan
and when the flood comes I will be
lying open in a field
smelling of damp earth and crushed grass
my knees unbent and my hands unclasped
my heart in my mouth still beating.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
I am sorry to seem so
callous when you call out
in your sleep but i am weary
unto death of pain
addicted to sickness i watch
your breast rise and
fall fall fall
i too fall into your ****** dream
candy colored visions in the dark night
(what is it you dream of
my love, my beloved
my death and my life
my life begins and ends
with each slow breath)
and christmas betokens
an end to these quiet rooms
this eternity of fits and starts
your breath like a spidery leaf
drifting in the winter breeze
tell your god good show
good show old man if
not for the pain i would
never have known he was ever here
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
The beauty of the desert
Is not in the land;
Barren, dry, harsh and bitter.
The beauty of the lake
Is not in the water;
Brackish, still, cold and endless.
The beauty of a man’s soul
Is not in his prayers;
Angry, conciliatory, false, importunate.
Look up
All reflects what shines above
Sun painting mountains pink
Glint of light on wave
Love that gives more than it takes
Beauty in the eye of the beholder
Blessing in the eye of the beloved
Perfection in reflection
Peace within and without
This walks with us
The vessel must be open
To receive the wine.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
Blue water laps at blue tile.
blue depths beckon.
I will float in the starry silence
and play Ophelia one last time;
a sacrifice to the playwright.
Jumbled, run-on, fragment…
thoughts are like ill-written sentences.
I drop my shirt, choose another
curl into the linen closet
cry.
Stop the thoughts
I don’t want to know.
Seek the white noise
surround myself in sterility.
In the blue blue water
no agony of the soul exists,
no god-thrown insult as exquisitely painful
as what flies in and out of my mind
on the wings of a crow.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
The son of a carpenter climbed a cross
And Saturnalia was lost forever…
Slaves, adorned in masters clothing
once drank out of the golden goblet and goosed the mistress
vied with paupers for King of Fools
banged pots and pans, slept with sloe-eyed boys til morning
poked, prodded, pampered, kissed, and loved again
The solemn lords of the city peered from their heavenly contemplations
and felt, like a worm in the mysticism of direct communication with god
a bit of remorse, a hint of resentment against the marble steps,
a yearning for the dance, for the abandonment of the senses
for a pageant worthy of those ***** old gods
MITHRAS, BACHUS, DIANA, DISCORDIA.
Before Christmas pushed jostled and shoved the holiday
out of the way,
we opened our homes to all the poor
they become the masters for the day.
while we ran behind with dishcloths and wild cries of
DON”T BREAK THAT
and infused with a small perverse pleasure
took our masks down for a night -
I will play sly servant lass
while my staid husband is forced into corners
with women who struggle to keep their teeth in
And their children fed.
If there were no Jesus,
the tree would still go up for the Norse
the presents still go out for the British
the children still adored for Saturn
the feast still cooked for the old Germanic tribes –
humility, guilt and being saved, saved, saved
saved from the drunkards in the streets,
saved from the firecrackers, the happy children, the Yule log,
saved the togetherness, the topsy-turvy of this most celebrated
happy out-of-control neighborly Solstice ancient block party-
That came from Christ.
Thanks Jesus, you old scrooge.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
Hail Mary
Grace that was yours
Grace of soul, of spirit
Stalled suddenly by stray bullet.
Hail Mary…
One more bead
Drawn and centered
You the center
Always the center
Center of it all.
Hail Mary,
beads slip through fingers,
You slipped through our hands
Through the sands,
Into the sand and into the hands of
Our Father, who art in heaven
Glory be thy name
Hallowed ground
Hollowed dirt
Honor exchanged for hope
Graceless bargain,
Thy will be done.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
A snake rattles and
slithers to the rock where
it will hide in serpent secrecy like
a tongue in mouth that lies.
A boot fears no snake bite
hardened leather and harder soles
as protected as a buried coffee can in the desert
baked impenatrable, this the snake will not bite.
The unshod foot, the unsuspecting mouse are
fair prey for the fangs that drip a poison
that kills without mercy, ****** with impugnity
and swallows whole those who trust.
Better be a boot; inflexible, unpenetrable,
than a bare foot or quiet mouse
when snakes lurk
in the secret shadow whispers of the dark.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
When the flowers begin to grow
the tender sprouts require constant
vigilance: fed, watered and shaded
babied as they begin to grow.
Long and rangy, the show the promise
of buds in the tips of their long bodies.
Then they bloom, no assistance needed
One day just needy stalks
the next a profusion of gentle lilac
and vivid yellow and ***** red
blue, white, pink.
The delicate petals entice the insects
and charm the air with sensory beauty.
But comes a colder time
buds may crumble and revert to weeds
blossoms browning and begging for release
Bulbs straining to escape the clay *** on the patio
It’s a careful gardener who knows when
the time comes to cut off the blooms
plant the bulbs in the wild
where they will bloom for strangers.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
I can not I can not
let loose this slender thread of beads
memories on a string of prayers
a few Hail Mary's thrown in
at the end of a long game
I can not forget this torn
this ripped shredded posture
lying like a shattered mirror on the linoleum
Curled like a fetus on the floor
I can not
I can not see
Prometheus replayed
Green lights and muted beeps
Electronic hourglasses
Scissors wait to cut the beads
No forgiveness,
the gods have sublet Olympus
I can not
Though autumn starts a new season
and leaves drift on the empty bleachers;
The rains bring new green weeds,
rank and inviting in the wet field
but I can not.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC