April showers
twice now this month
and we’re only three days in
–not to mention
the onion snow
guaranteed
to make you cry.
Thunder
shoulders the heavy
lifting, furniture
looks better against
the far wall
upright
bass as the raindrops
plink against
the air conditioner,
grill, I’m itching to use.
And the train
bellows at the crossings
peals of its whistle
announcing its arrival
snow-capped gondolas
boxcars
I’m itching to use.
Finding flowers
along those Western routes.
surrounded
by this great cloud of
witnesses
behind and before me
letters
the stepping stones
speaking out Your name.
I cannot bear to drink
from the cup
You’ve been offered,
yet I continue to request
a seat at your table.
The left, of course,
my liberal side,
but not too much so
because I am more comfortable here
with my OCD
holding me fast
to the simplest forms
of norms
I’m not willing to do without.
Stepping in time
with this parade of sinners
saints, as they go marching in
robed in the school colors
blood of the lamb washed white
technicolor dreams
of funding the arts
reflecting facets
of Your unending
spin cycle
the rinse and repeat
as I stare
while You hand wash
the delicates.
Witch’s familiar
unlucky
black
cat in the hat
pushed from its perch
with a squeak and a lurch
giving Barry the evil eye
curses
a hiss, unmissed
amid circles
that speak in creaks
stifling ciphers
toeing translations
in shifting sand.
He sniggers
as the pounce
send the beasts bleating
retreating
in their sheepish ways
turning tail
leaving trails
droppings, like breadcrumbs
led ‘em.
red pen
not in correction
but connection
a written revival
red letter Bible
words of Jesus
may it please us
the rule of thumb, among
us creative types:
write what you know,
but not about one’s self.
the unholy trinity
of me, myself, and I
bouncing bullies in back alleys
against the dead end
of another wall
the past, stacked
against me
boxes, such are coffins
bodies of work
parchment
sloughing off like old skin,
yet the hair
and fingernails
growing long in the tooth.
My eyes peruse the abuse
from the tip of an unbeliever’s pen.
We shall counter that blade
with flaming swords
holding back
their tide of triumph.
The enemy shall not overcome.
Funny, how quickly I run out to the paper,
funny, the faith I have
that He will do as He says
as I meet Him at His word…
Yet I can’t remember
to read the daily Bible passage
on the bottom corner
of the same page.
The mirror’s glamour
gloomy shade
reflected not
what he thought:
the sleep on the road, on the run
prisons of papier-mâché
monsters of men, martyrs
wearing crowns of thorns.
While the tales have all been told,
and the lies
behind the eyes, as
crow’s feet peck and hop
and four and twenty black birds
murmur across
dark waters
and oft-forgotten woods
where dreams once dwelt.
Cauldrons scald of stone soup
made with love by
those Bremen Town magicians
visions of beasts, eat
and as they feast, their eyes
on the throne of bones
dragged away by their own
evil desire and enticed
their animal natures, rut, rote
reign forever in this world
atop a hill of beans.
He forgets his face
until the next time he looks,
gazing at the grays
that weren’t there last time.
This predilection
to malediction
diseases, such as these, if it pleases:
mad cow
hog cough
chickensick
bold wives tales
in old folks’ tomes
three, the number
of your destiny.
wishes, fishes,
cowboy creamer
spoons and dishes.
the prophecy
naught but a fallacy
whispered in the wings
over moonshine
and dandelion wine
in our cups
under the table.
the forest council
all but forgotten
spun from straw
the golden fleece
fooled, pulled
the wool over our eyes
thrown
to the wolves in sheep’s clothing
‘tis only right,
but we ain’t got time
for a proper burial.
Even a cairn
of unbridled possibility
stacking up to cover up
bodies
we pray you’ll never have to see.
We don’t want no animals
poking ‘round the remains.
The scent of fresh blood on the air
will drive ‘em down the valley
…and we want to be long gone by the time they get here.
shuttled through the tunnels
like so much spoiled meat
snuffling and a’snarling
this beast upon two feet
Minotaurian presence
half-man, the body shared
double the size of mere mortals
if anyone dared care
he had no strings to tie him down
or keep him on the path
this city was a festering sore
‘twas dim, and dank, and daft
it was another of their tests
the smarmy, grim cabal
gave no twine or map, no lights down here
as he felt along tepid tiled walls
cast about into the depths
naught much more than thoughts
how it was he got this far
how much he had lost
find his way somehow, he would
these subways built to last
also ran quite systematic
he’d be out before much time had passed
