Tuesday, November 30, 2010

I Am Weak and Willing

God asked his friends
to wait up with him, watching, but
they weren’t accustomed to tears
and fearful gardens, so fell asleep
among dead quiet bushes, their friend,
all but blinded by sweat and blood begging for them,


Up parallel on the hard edge
of concrete and brick, I know
myself flat, like
the horizon, like a long arm

laying a long arm down.
This is the best way to stand.
Hand over the edge, suspended by bone

in air turns gravity’s grave messenger
and descriptor of death, the message
rising up my arm like a cold breath crawling

toward the heart (of worlds
of stone and flesh). The best way to see
the city stretching past head and toe is gaping
straight into that flaming sky.
Which pulls and pushes
our willful frames.
And kisses hard ears
with a soft mouth.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Thread (perfect love drives out all fear)

I'll let the bladeyou cut me
like a needle
scarred. / I am frightened, tighten
the thimble on my head.
Where do you take me? want me / where? descending
through the tight seams of someone else’s dream / I plunge


I want to believe that the ring I wear
is a ring I wear
with the inscription hidden (hugging skin)
that means what I in the thin skin think it is.
Touch me; the heat left the ring
(and therefore both my eyes and all my skin) long ago and I know
no other source. You have the words of life.
I wrote a promise / in my mind / on a ring
I did not forge or make or buy:
this (oddly) fails to fill me.

I Would Like To

Father, I would like to love you but the fell
swooping of ravens nearly runs me over. Their
beaks are very sharp and I do not enjoy
their rough hands in the least. Or could I call them
my enemies, my foes and their feet, their claws
so unlike my feet but are they so different?
At times I am looking up at you and suddenly
I worry my feet have clawed and become the very
scratch-makers that write their own name over
and over again on your perfect skin.
I begin to believe my nothingness can overcome
your deafening all. But all
I need sits on your lips

that whistle and the birds drop
dead or gone (I don’t know I don’t care)
and they clear my head and you
are standing here in my heart in a white robe
blinding, your face is

Tuesday, November 16, 2010


I can look through Hubble eyes
without blinking but the thought
of a hard look from a man makes shudder fill my wise.

Justice? or compassion? I just want
a spot beneath the wide warm
blanket of a big, blind world.

Athena, I thought you served the God of Light but in this litter
of demons you have become like a broken glowstick in a litter
of broken glowsticks.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Mercy! Madness is the only constellation I can find.

The light around is full and warm me
like Picasso’s blue bastard, the marriage of presumption
and truth annulled. Cry, self! and strike
Daddy is not here, hurt him.

No, calm. No, no, calm.
No, calm. Peace no calm, calm.

I came into myself and found I was not there.
The door off its hinges twenty years hence
and the worn wood splintered where a man’s hand
had rapped and bled.
And I remember what I thought then
was the beating of my heart and its
assurance but all along it had whistled
a thin dead thing,
thinking it-self the mind and molecule of
what the thunder on the doorstep was struggling to
say. I thought I was
but what was is still and I am here no more.

But peace, peace, to the favored
he sings. But isn’t there favor unsung? but sing.

I saw the stove on, I took my hand, I
laid it down. Shouldn’t I cry? The bubbling
flesh has the aspect of being wronged.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

I Woke And Was Happy

Maybe it is strange to love
the rain but let me
tell you something strange: You
and I live on the brink of cloud; we hate it
when glory is wrapped
or unwrapped. There is really no satisfying us.
Say the sun is shining. Does it please even the pleasant
to know the center of this system
of light is not them
or their systems? It takes a lot of courage
to look. Costs your eyes. Not that I’ve done it but
I’ve seen old men and very young
girls wheeling in joy,

blind, loose-tongued joy.

Proverbs 18:4

The water is running
like I want to
run I want to
run I want to
do what I can’t do:


O let some milk from this
squeezed dark stone flow, else strip
the dead heavy soul from this
poor body, still warm,
poor body.

I Dreamed

I dreamed we were two wise rulers of words,
stately heads like stone monuments held
over the sea. But I woke
to two frail bodies in a bed, and the sweet
mockery of Him
Who loves.


like foreigners by trusting hosts,
these thoughts

wreak havoc in the corners of my mind,
whose doors had, I thought, been bolted,
where enemies and friends

know not to knock,
where comfort reigned,
a king of colored glass.


I wrestle with the questions
of my generation. What do we ask? I don’t even know
my brother’s language, my cousin’s face.
The world has not grown difficult
(some intricate flower on history’s straight
and thorny stem), we just discovered more
ways to be blind.


Your silence is magnificent; your speech
makes the deer calve and the forest-
heart shudder, shudder, break.

The morning gets in my eyes, the bloody sun
clawing in demand my neck and chin.
Time squeezes limbs in thin hallways,
dry kitchens, cold showers, hot streets.

Your robe fills the temple
like a purple flood; your footstool,
the earth, creaks.

And so over-many the fashions
daily different, now cropped, now extended,
tighter looser thicker thinner striking nonexistent
I am sick of it all I am sick of it.

Your eye rests on the righteous
full of joy.