A taste of Heaven

Not me:

at those harps

sporting a stylish halo

walking on cotton ball clouds.

 

Not me beyond conflict,

Receiving everything I want

even before I ask for it:

Not in my heaven.

 

I used to only know what it wasn’t.

But the gift

of the last

few weeks

has been a taste of what it will be.

 

I was nearly wrung dry:

I hope you will permit me to torture that metaphor

and clarify:

the towel

of my soul

was just

barely

damp.

 

In moments of peace

there was solace

in the fact

that I’d done some good.

 

But I needed peace

to find that peace,

a thorny dilemna.

And then there was the ocean

not waiting for me

except that it was

waiting for me.

 

What deep hidden part of us

does the white noise-rhythm of the waves

awaken? Why does the salt

carried on the breeze

remind me who I am?

 

And in the middle

of the rest and the peace

we held a war council

to recover one of our own:

 

But even this brings a deeper peace

than the surface battles we fight:

I am reminded of who is by my side.

 

And the capping moment

that next time

A legacy reawakened

through its own force of will?

 

How could you know

that my own grandmother

stored up her change

for me way back then?

 

A handful of metal and lint and miscelania…

through the bank’s alchemy metamorphed…

and then changed again:

 

Whatever I wanted,

stuff simultaneously

worthless and priceless…

And so my heart tells me it will be like this

In the Great Then:

 

Rest and battle, trials and the continuance of all the good things…

But there is something more!

I will not play a harp but I will hear it

maybe we will hear it

 

maybe this is the Great Difference:

Our acts, all of them, will be the

voices, the strings, the harmony.

It turns out there is a truth hiding in that simple-scary vision of Heaven

 

We will hear it in some new way:

Earthly music will turn out to be only a castrated echo

of this thing our actions themselves will proclaim:

 

Holy is the Lamb Holy is the Lamb Holy is the Lamb. 

 

 

The Neo-Emo-Goths

Where did they come from…

this army

of adolescent

androgyns

 

Where did they come from…

with the zippered hoodies

that look like the skin

of neon zebra.

 

Where did they come from…

Probably

they identify

themselves with a name I’m not cool enough to know, let alone speak.

I think of them as neo-emo-goths.

 

Where did they come from…

Wherever it was

there must have been no sun.

They are so pale.

And they maybe played the paino.

With those long boney white fingers.

 

Where did they come from…

With these elven-waif features

and collar length hair

too apathetic for naturally-occuring color or texture

 

Where did they come from…

It must have been a place

where men only

were allowed product

for fingernails and eyes, lips and cheeks.

It must have been a place

with a surplus

of Nightmare Before Christmas

paraphenelia.

 

Where did they come from…

was it an underground dwelling

with roots poking through the low roof

where they were lined up

bony hip jabbing bony hip

where they were in a catatonia

unblinking

unmoving

until some

unspoken signal

triggered the Great Emergence

of the Gothic Groundhog Patrol?

 

Where did they come from…

Countless suburban closets

where they hung

upside down on pull-up bars

in silence

for years

patiently waiting

for the whole rap chic thing

to run its course?

 

Where did they come from…

perhaps they arrived from

some faerie world

on magical ships

with long sails unfurled…

Were those shopping malls deemed

as good a beachhead as any?

 

Wherever they came from

There is this cross generational connection

It only last a moment.

 

(S)he is buying a stack

of C.D.s that evoke my childhood:

Oingo Boing

Morrisey The Cure

Madness, Pixies– of course the Pixies

and Sinead

 

The purchased is bagged

(s)he turns to face me and ruins the moment

with a Billy Idol whiplash smile

I realize this great confusion:

Is this schmaltz or for real

Is this camp or a home in the 80’s…

When you live

in a world fortified with irony

The sarcasm soon becomes

the very air that you breathe.

I, this crowd

I, this crowd

Whose legion is not demons

But ghosts

Ghosts made in my mind

They’ve traveled foreward in time.

 

I, this crowd.

I carry the weights

I am a pathchworl thing.

A frankenstien thing.

A summation:

 

I, this crowd.

Who I am

Is not who I was

And who I was

Is foreverwithme

 

I, this crowd

The boysmenchildren-crowd

Whisperwhisperwhisper.

 

I, this crowd

Except it is like this

Whisperwhisper whisper

Quiet-loud, so quiet-loud

Sometimes it drowns out

Screams   Screams     Screams

 

I, this crowd

Except it is like this:

Screams   Screams     Screams  Screams   Screams     Screams

 

 

I this crowd

Not me,

It is not me that screams

(except that it is They are me now.)

They were once everyone else.

But when you speak-yell-beg-scream

Screams  Screams   Screams     Screams

They keep going, echos made alive

 

I, this crowd.

The screams kept going echoes made alive and grew screamers.

 

And I, this crowd

This crowd Screams  Screams   Screams     Screams whisper

I can not hear myself

There is no peace there is know peace

I can not hear myself

 

I, this crowd

Lost and alone and the scream and the whisper (whisper whisper whisper)

I have this dream

That I will walk away

 

I will leave this crowd

To whisper, to scream

Among themselves

A Deer in the Headlights

It’s so easy to hear that story
about how everything is ruined.
When you’re not in the middle of this
when you’re status-quo copesetic
it’s an academic exercise
at most
an explanation
for why everything isn’t quite right
even when everything is right

But nobody ever told me
that some nights this full house would be also-empty
that this full life would be also-empty
that my life would demand from me not just answers but actions
except that I’d have no answers let alone actions

They never told me that I might long for the cold comfort of resignation
Right now I’d take comfort in any temperature it wants to come in.
They never warned me
that sometimes
you can’t shrug your shoulders and say
“oh well I gave it all I have.”

I gave it all I have…
I did give it all I have.
It wasn’t enough.
It isn’t enough.
Where is my “oh well?”

I’m afraid.
That I’d sell my soul.
For that.

A small, easy thing

It is no small, easy thing…
this small, easy thing:

To eat unhurredly,
to take small, unassuming bites
to finish them and swallow and pause

just pause.

Wisdom is slow.
Truth speaks in this quiet voice.

There is greatness
in just this:
cool slices of turkey
nestled in a buttery croissant

Knowing that last bite
left me only a little thirsty:
a half-mouthfull of water
from a cup unneding of ice cubes
is enough.

Untitled communion poem

The grotesqueries are the point.

It is a cracker, yes,
but it is also His Flesh
being ground to grit between my molars.

Not the Jews (or for the Jews)
Not the Romans (or for the Romans)
but me
for me

And yes,
it is simply lemon tea (instead of grape juice, we’re out)
in a chipped mug but
it’s also his blood
in my mouth
and down my esophagous

that full warm tang
surprises me
shocks me
sickens me
nourishes me

I am a canibal-vampire.
And it seems that this is how it must be.
And so I offer my thanks to God
for it.

A prayer

Father,
here I kneel.
at this small table with this empty cup.

If you fill it
I will drink it–
whatever it is that You put in there.

If you do not fill it
then I will still bring it to my lips
and I will breathe the cool air instead.

A bag full of Crickets

Was the cruelty accidental? 

To those little things it does not matter.

Some minimum wage slave hung it up here

in front of the lizard tanks.

 

The plodding grey thing at least looks happy.

Its tongue moves like it has a life of it’s own…

Waving a menacing hello

through the glass

 

through the clear plastic.

I wonder how long they’ve been locked in this tableau,

A crowd contemplating their fate

A lizard contemplated his supper…

 

It seems to have been a while.

Things are mostly now a stale mate.

The yellow gray creature stands here in the corner

looking both bored and eager.

 

Dozens of little bugs have resigned themselves.

They’ve settled into a gross pile of wings eyes legs shells

except for this one alone, away,

Legs moving legs moving legs moving

 

finding purchase impossibly in the smooth plastic

He runs like he were actually putting space between himself

and his predator.

I want to be that cricket.

 

 

 

a variation in the key of 1 Corinthians 13

1 Corinthians 13The very depths of me hum

with the greatness of this realization:

This realization that though I might speak great truth

truths which unlock the secrets of this world

truths which unlock the secrets of the next world

I might speak ecstatic wisdom.

but words

without love

are only noise.

And I might appear to be a prophet:

holy man healer medicine man mystic.

There might be a depth to me

deeper even than the deepest wisdom

Healings, trances and supernatural abilities.

but actions,

abilities,

without love

are irrelevant.

If I am self-sacrificing:

if I give every piece of me

to build up every piece of you

if I give until I am a sad shell…

if I wait until I am almost nothing

if I throw the sad remnants of what I once had

of what I once was

into the very flames of sacrifice…

if I sacrifice even my love

if I give even my love

until I have none left

then I have truly given too much.

Where patience manifests itself

love is underneath

where kindness emerges on the outside

love hovers beneath

where envy has been transcended

love has conquered

where boasting has been ended

love has begun

where pride falls

love rises

where cruelties fade away

love comes into focus

where selfishness is defeated

love victors.

where rule books and score books are thrown away

love springs up.

Love does not flourish among evil,

love abides in truth.

love preserves the eternal

love trusts even when it is hard

love believes in the best of us

love maintains the best of us.

Love is perfect.

it is not like our words, any words

whether those words speak of this world or the next.

Because some day

we will run out of words

because some day

our tounges will no longer wag.

Love is perfect.

It is deeper than understanding.

understanding resides within us.

and is a passenger with us.

and it passes with us.

The best we can ever hope for is to speak partial truths.

The best we can ever hope for is to know half the truth.

But we can participate,

right here,

and right now

in something which is full and complete.

Someday we will be greater than we are.

Someday we will see that we are not so different now

than the child we once were.

We know that when we were toddlers

we could not speak complete sentences

or understand the fullness of adult thought

Someday we will look at who we are now

and where we are now.

and we will see that we are still toddling around

still so uncomplete.

We put our childishness away before,

we will put away this new childishness again.

In that new place

in that new time

we will step into the fullness

of what we were meant to be.

The best of us

is what will be left of us.

We will be faith

hope

and love.

But the greatest of these

the greatest of what we will be

is love.

1984 Revisited: A prose poem

And the clocks were striking 13.

(Page 5 of 1984 written by George Orwell: Signet Classic ed., copyright 1949.)

In the far distance a helicopter skimmed

down

between the roofs

hovered

for an instant…

and

darted

away

again.

It was the Police Patrol

snooping into people’s windows.

The Police Patrol did not matter, however.

Only the thought police mattered.

(Page 6 of 1984 written by George Orwell: Signet Classic edition, copyrighted 1949)

The day’s worst loss came from the crash of a U.S. Army helicopter northeast of Baghdad that killed 13 service members.An attack Saturday night blamed on militiamen in the city of Karbala killed five soldiers. Roadside bombs killed another soldier in the capital and one in Nineveh province north of Baghdad

(By BASSEM ROUE, Associated Press Writer published Saturday, January 20, 2007 )

There was of course no way of knowing if you were being watched at any given moment.

How often

or on what system

the thought police plugged in on

was guesswork.

It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time.

It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time.

You.

You.

You.

You had to live-

did live,

from habit

that became instinct-

in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard

every sound you made was overheard

every sound you made was overheard

every sound you

You

You

every sound you made was overheard

and

except in darkness

every movement scrutinized.

every

movement

scrutinized.

(Page 6 of 1984 written by George Orwell: Signet Classic edition, copyrighted 1949)

The National Security Agency has been secretly collecting the phone call records of tens of millions of Americans, using data provided by AT&T, Verizon and BellSouthThe NSA program reaches into homes and businesses across the nation by amassing information about the calls of ordinary Americans — most of whom aren’t suspected of any crime. ordinary Americans- who aren’t suspected of any crime.

By Leslie Cauley, USA TODAY Updated 5/11/2006 2007 10:38 AM ET

It was just possible to read

picked out on its white face

the three slogans of the party

WAR IS PEACE(Page 8 of 1984 written by George Orwell: Signet Classic Edition, copyrighted 1949)

The time for denying, deceiving, and delaying has come to an end. Saddam Hussein must disarm himself — or, for the sake of peace, we will lead a coalition to disarm him.(From a speech made by President George W. Bush October 7, 2002)

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY(Page 8 of 1984 written by George Orwell: Signet Classic Edition, copyrighted 1949)

Now, as before, we will secure our nation, protect our freedom, and help others to find freedom of their own.Some worry that a change of leadership in Iraq could create instability and make the situation worse. The situation could hardly get worse, for world security and for the people of Iraq.

(From a speech made by President George W. Bush October 7, 2002)

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH(Page 8 of 1984 written by George Orwell: Signet Classic Edition, copyrighted 1949)

Satellite photographs reveal that Iraq is rebuilding facilities at sites that have been part of its nuclear program in the past. Iraq has attempted to purchase high-strength aluminum tubes and other equipment needed for gas centrifuges,which are used to enrich uranium for nuclear weapons.

(From a speech made by President George W. Bush October 7, 2002)

The thing that he was about to do was not illegal

nothing was illegal since there were no longer any laws

but

if detected

it was reasonably certain

that it would be punished

by death

or atleast

by twenty five years in a forced labor camp.

(Page 9 of 1984 written by George Orwell. Signet Classic Edition, copyrighted 1949)

The U.S. holds about 435 detainees at Guantanamo,some captured after the ouster of Afghanistan’s Taliban regime

following the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks.

The U.S. has refused calls from human-rights groups and the United Nations

for its closure, saying the detainees are “enemy combatants” whose internment is necessary as part of the war on terror.

By Caroline AlexanderJan. 21 2007(Bloomberg Financial Times)

Freedom

is the freedom

to say that two plus two equals four.

If that is granted all else follows.

(Page 69 of 1984 written by George Orwell. Signet Classic edition. Copyright 1948.)