Sunday, December 25, 2011


My ankle and the walls are paying
in pain for this desire. And I no less
hold holes in me much bigger than my heart,
ironically fist-sized - or so I tell my eyes,
which have never seen the gruesome sight
of warm truths under skin.  

When I was asleep 

among white bones and the quiet rituals of night,
the world seemed softer, the moon's open mouth
full of music. 

Now floating on this sea of dreaming dead, it's clear 

he was always screaming. Always screaming
about the sun,

about how cold the dark face - and there is never
no dark face - of him is. 

How did my body wake in this huge house?
The very stillness 

of its parts inspires 
me to run
and kick
and burn. But
I know that in the freedom of the air
I'd only feel the wind more sharply
biting thru my openings and voids. 

Monday, December 19, 2011

dear Majesty

thank you for ignoring my pleas
to leave me. i was right to call myself
unworthy; wrong
to limit love. i thank you

also for seeing,
from the other side of day,
my genuine, my incredible
and pouring precious stones and
sweet songs from open hands into
a silent heart anyhow.
i thank you

for setting alarms.
you are the waker of my dead.
i thought i loved dreaming
more than anything,
till i woke up in you. thanks

for having spoken what was
and what is and what is
to be.

you make things.
you make things real.
you make things real to me.
you make me real.

When I Write You I'll Stop Seeing

I've been dreaming high and low,
looking about the face and sound of you.
Do you know the miles I thought,
walking of you? They sat many;
I never was. Stand now (please, love) to get to me —
I can't hurry much more waiting,
not for long. 

Friday, December 16, 2011


Four old men
Sit in a coffee shop.
I've read this poem before.

Four old men sit in a coffee shop.

They talk about the Bible,
laugh about the president,
joke about the world.

Little Victories

What great strange mercy, these
little victories. Like drops of liquid gold
in hands of mud.
I admit: You are a riddle. I admit:

You are no match for me.
Each time I measure the length of your arm
you reach beyond reason
to recapture me.

But My Hands

Look: my hands are heavy
and red with hot disease. I can't
serve you, Lord; I shouldn't
handle anything at all.
Why do you say to me,

Come here? How dare you want
to touch a sinner, think to risk
glorious security,
certain praise?
This mouth has nothing for you, God.

Or are you truly good
or shameless enough to suffer
the mockery of wise men for this fool?
The horror of it doesn't
horrify you?