January 2007 Archives
crossfire
the demons touch gently at first, sifting through who is who in the darkness, finding me wrapping their arms tightly about my chest so I can only breath in faint, rapid gasps their claws sink into the clefts between my ribs and I taste the iron under their nails, residue from working lucifer’s mercury mines they squeeze and squeeze but my ribs are too strong for them to break
under a thundersky a man comes next to me his face blank with after-sex calm he offers to send my demons away I tip my hat to him at least they’re my demons, I don’t own much else I limp off toward Tombstone, demons in tow, to finish the task of burying my wife, to finish the task of throwing one last handful of dirt on her coffin, to finish the task and ride out past the preacher, always to the west, always westward ho, toward the rumor of a great raging sea, where a man can lose himself in the scattered San Francisco sun and never have to look at his shadow for too long a time
leaving
cut holes in wrists and feet so that
the sun can shine through my limbs drive
a pencil into my side between
the second and third ribs
so that the sun comes into my soul
nights walking the sodden streets
my winter jacket’s hood raised as
a great venomless cobra
I have no venom
I have no blood
nothing left to bleed
I cross the seas at night
my legs telescoping rods
to the sea beds
stirring clouds of the
dead and powdered
I cross the African plains
and stop in the middle of the Nairobi
where man was born, where herds of wildebeest stare at me
where a great old silver lion pisses on my feet
how far does a man need to wander from himself
voice from an ancient lake burned away
beneath the grass plains same voice of hope
in the face of a disastrous life
tomorrow I will be someone else
tomorrow I will be someone else
and forget you my love
my love forget you
These poems originally appeared in the 10.4 (Summer 2006) issue of The 2River View.
Every now and then someone contacts 2River wanting to know it's history and thought. Here's the transcript of an interview with Ephemera, a blog by a publication class at Hollins University.
Apparition Wren
The trill, quivering as the sun crosses
over the half-stretched sound, comes
to quiet now. It’s what you’ve always been:
a little bird shifting past. The felled fruit
lies ripe & wasted in the cherry orchard
marking the place where a very old woman sensed
your nimble rise. She would not know
the careless stint of tilted wing. She kept loving you
as simply as you loved the expectant air. Darkness
gathers in the grass—she rests on her knees
pronouncing your imprint as prayer,
and discovers late your voice
of stone. She sees it is better now,
your dappled song grown
shameless & empty inside the mouth.
Dovecote Ephemera
Along the gold hem of her dress, edges
where the silk frayed, a flock of birds swung—
It was a distance
she long carried out of gladness,
a nothingness—the illimitable horizon. Soon
the buzz on the radio boomed with a smattering
of tiny voices. A flap of wing lifted
in her throat. A spasm emptied her name into the forecast,
and memory assigned speechlessness
to grief. Threadbare birds
fell away into the hills—as untouchable
as grace. She swayed on the stoop
like the delicate tracing of eyes
over paper scraps. Stepping forth, she heard a flurry
of calm and, at last, a spill of birds—no longer trapped
by the borrowed vacancy of her body.
These poems originally appeared in the 10.4 (Summer 2006) issue of The 2River View.
Ash Wednesday
This is where the journey begins: at the end
of a thumb blackened: imprinted: set apart:
sacrificial: hairshirted: mea culpa & I'm sorry,
Lord, so sorry: surrender: reconciliation: a pact:
the body reviled: the body denied: the body
transformed to holy hunger: the temple
sealed for a necessary restoration: gutted:
these the stripes: this the desert: the constant
question/confession: despair: this is where
the journey begins: on the knees: supplicant:
eyes desperately shut: give me a sign:
& is this even prayer: I mourn a simpler faith:
the mustard seed: the certainty of ashes: mass
the sun piercing the window: its stained glass
Fear and Trembling
After Kierkegaard
And there are many ways to come undone
—some more exquisite than others. Ask Eve,
she will tell you apple-lust unwrapped her
left her cold and with a word for shiver.
Lot's wife is witness that a backward glance
is enough—nostalgia pillared her. But,
I imagine the somewhat greater deeds:
picture the Red Sea unstitched like a braid;
the lion's den, its many hungry mouths;
Isaac's bewildered screams: why, daddy, why?
And what terrible choice to peel back doubt
like a bandage, without question or lack
to say Here am I, to renounce relief:
step in, seize the knife, and to know belief.
Veneration
It is the simple, the small, kindly acts
that show us: Veronica's thoughtful cloth,
its imprint of sweat, blood & silent thanks;
Simon of Cyrene's grudging aid, his wrath
resigned to the need of a criminal;
A common thief's dying, ready defense;
John's empathic hand, slipped into the small
of Mary's back as she stands stoic, tense
before the hoisted body of her son.
We did not recognize you for our God
—our first fault. But even worse was the one
which with ease nailed an innocent to wood.
I kneel in surrender to your mystery;
I kiss your pain, your bleeding, human knee.
These poems originally appeared in the 10.4 (Summer 2006) issue of The 2River View.
Because It Was Drizzling
Because it was drizzling
while I waited for a bald man
to finish with the ATM,
I sang The Boxer into my fist—
My winter clothes and wishing
I was gone, going home.
At the end, his back to me
and his shoulders sopping,
the bald man said
You've got a great voice
for that song, it's a hard song
and well—it's a great song
isn't it?
Sure, I said,
shy, uncertain, a boy.
Then, as hard as I could,
Thank you. Thanks.
Because it was still drizzling
after he left, as I checked
my face for pimples
in the ATM safety mirror
wired to the alarm.
Why Is Nothing On Our Stove?
You like the way I
burst in? I thought
you might. I did it
for you. If I'm hardy
har har and you're a
squelched hum, what will
they say about our kids?
Shall we have them
in motels, stapling
our gods to vacant
signs? Shall I buy
the laundry soap and
liquor, while you
beg your mother (red
and plump) for a loan?
You like the way I
taste your fingers
in ten easy slurps?
What's with the tissues?
What's with the smell
of fish from the next
apartment and why is
nothing on the stove
in our tiny kitchen?
These poems originally appeared in the 10.3 (Spring 2006) issue of The 2River View
