Chanting 'round fire, I find your ascetic attire.
Swallow me in your divine robes of love.
Burn away what is lost and all is found.

Sun of Knowledge bring Life to stone.
This world is magic and your very own.
Lost along the tiring brick roads,
I retire back home. Solid, within my deep forest throne.

My daddy always told me
I would catch my hair
with flames.

I bow down to the
little black toaster;
praising his holy name.

Oh! Let me give thanks,
little black toaster,
for you have now fulfilled my every need.

I huff and puff
on filter stem;
hijacked cigarette now all mine.

A holy demure had risen
from the thoughtless exposure
that crumbled under her heels
each crux up Olympus;
And I, forever faithful,
belaying her ascent, unfounded,
delaying my own, grounded as
her head breached the clouds,
A fairytale if not for the landslide
burying me under stone proof
of her unfathomable scale
out of my rope-burned hands
that only God can measure.

prepare for the high gates to fall.
for the great bowl of us
to submerge under stolen soul waves
& atomic guts.

the seven year tribes; or
fissure of statehoods and broods and brother against brother.
end drenched in whisky blood,
& desperado cheese.
fungus.

[the rebellion kids] with their drums and sling-shots,
get their throats cut in the open street sweet heat
& blitzkrieg.
all first-born hearts plucked
from atop the great pyramid, preserved, and in
frosted time-capsules.

yet the leopards remain healthy.
while cities plunge into putrefaction &/or
radioactive ****.
from **** to corner to tomahawk
in skull death note.

beaten back to the parking-lot of a best western;
in the battle of sacramento;
is an ammo-less infantry drummer,
& a bleeding medic.
they laugh and snap morphine tips
in the revelry of their final formations.

moon crescent
slows and all the woods liven with flocks of small children.
they live on plant sugars, wild
mushroom and boiled water.
they hide in caves of ancient etch;
old time-gone man & woman & buffalo.

they hunt owls with homemade crossbows
& cook the meat on holy spits.
grinding the little bones
into tincture rubbed beneath their eyes.
this, to exhume an astral essence.

Fay looked over
the ledge
of the balcony
of Banks House

that Sunday morning
I stood beside her
she'd just come back
from mass

with her family
and had sneaked out
to see me
the baker's cart

was over
in the Square
the horse
was stationary

eating out
of some nose bag
we watched the baker
run with his basket

to one of the flats
what did they teach you
at mass today?
I asked

taught nothing
she said
it's listening
to the priest

perform mass
and read
from the Bible
and then take

holy communion
which is when
we take Christ
into ourselves

the baker ran back
to his cart
and took out
more loaves

and ran over
to another block
of flats
I see

I said
how's He do that?
Do what?
How does Christ

get into you?
in the bread
the host
as we call it

she said
He's in the bread?
It isn't bread any more
it's His body

she said
it's called
transubstantiation
that's a mouthful

I said
so what happens?
the horse attached
to the baker's cart

moved a few paces
the baker jumped
onto his seat
and they moved

a few feet
then he jumped off
with his basket
with more loaves

and rushed
to another flat
Fay looked at me
with her pale blue eyes

I loved those eyes
I could have boxed
them up
and carried them

around with me
and have taken
quick glimpses
at them

now and then
to give me a lift
the bread changes
into the Body of Christ

she said
how?
I asked
not outwardly

of course
she added
but sacramentally
spiritually

I was none the wiser
but looked at her
fair hair
long down

passed her thin shoulders
down touching
where her hips began
you look pretty

I said
Daddy says
that personal praise
of one's looks or body

is sinful
and is also vanity
I watched her
thin fingers touch

each other
the pads of the fingers
touching the pads
of the others

why create beauty
then call it sinful
to say so
I said

am I pretty?
she asked
sure you are
I said

and if it's sinful
to say so
then tough *****
she looked away

at the departing baker
on his cart
in the Square
and I continued

to give her
my hazel eyes
and
my cool stare.

Outside the windows I see
Some powerful force
That moves the tall trees
And through it the birds fly their course.

Although we can not see the wind
We can feel it around us
Although we sing beautiful hymns,
We can not fully describe this.

The wind moves us like nothing else,
The Holy Spirit moves us like nothing else.

The old monk
with Parkinson’s disease,
bug eyed

through thick lenses
spectacles,
his fingers

shaking the host,
is unable to find
the tongue

in sick monk’s
static mouth.
I weeded

the cloister Garth
flower bed,
back aching,

God
at my young
bent shoulder.

The youngest monk,
squat and black robed,
holds the ewer,

while the abbot
holds between
knobbly fingers,

the aspergillum,
to bless the monks
in the choir stalls,

after Compline,
before
the Angelus calls.