For Christ Almighty

The year is almost out

a candle burning down.

John has died, crucified

not even now

the gospel of twist & shout allowed

just a wiggle and wail

an old man in the corner

spewing in an older pail.

Everything is ending

slowly, all at once.

Judge not or yea shall be judged,

didn’t some body say?

So what?

I’ll do it my way ….

the cover band bays n’

cardboard Jesus’ sway

with me in this meltdown

pressed, panicked like the Mad Hatter

knowing now the show doesn’t matter

for Christ almighty

he’s left his light snuffed out

the Gospel according to John

is gone

for many years now

gone for Christ almight

or thereabouts.

Dec. 8th, 1999. Karlovy Vary

To Be Nowhere

to be no where

abandoning what you were

not embracing

what you are going to be.

To just be

but no where

in a kind of

other life –

all that isn’t,

is to see

the nature of which

pretends to make

us free.

It is to be

outside the looking glass

looking in

a place where

in the middle of no where

we are aware

that nothing stays

that a broken record still plays

the wind will wind again,

it is to be

both the fruit falling

and the tree,

this no where

where G-d is the eye

I see.

An Xmas Thought

He works on a train gang

and after work each day

he stands outside the corner store

cigarette and beer in hand

no thoughts of nothing more.

Christmas to him

is just a dream of a few days off

the joy of his child’s smile

for others,

debit cards, crowds, fast cars

as early this morning

he bends over towards

his tired wife

and says,

flesh is all we are.

Tooth pickture

7 am

and still the tooth aches

and nothing else matters.

not the sleep you didn’t get

not the dishes to do

not the unpaid bills

not the smack she gave you

not the 4 alarm fire downstairs.

The only thing that matters is

the absence

the abscess within.

Then, out of nowhere

mana from heaven,

the door is opened

and the hot iron

is taken off the wound.

Nothing else still matters

only this absence

that pain – where did it go?

How wonderful a world it now is.

Fields and fields of relief.

Belief, again.

A toothache is a poem

that we live

the moment pain is

re placed.

A Prayer

May this day bring

a cold drink

some laughter

beside the ceviche truck

by the mercado

far away

from the bitching wife.

May this day bring

a poem

not even a good one.

A paycheck

not even a large one.

A song

somewhere

in my heart.

May this day bring

peace,

give me just a little piece

that’s all I ask

and like

change jingling in a homeless guy’s hand

I’ll dance ‘n smile

like a thief

stealing fire from a god,

like a night lasting all day long.

Amen, hallelujah and all that jazz.

Dec. 20th, 2014. Antigua, Guatemala

Taking Off The Lid

One must wonder

at this world of

beer cans, ashtrays and “just because”,

wonder at the

movement of it all,

how pages yellow and lovers spent

crawl away to their corner of the bed,

how the flowers in the vase

dry and disappear, deny the day,

wonder at the way

it all slides down,

wonder and listen for

the sound that can’t be found

the sound that accompanies our

great, so gentle, imperceptible fall,

listen for the orchestra’s honest organizing whistle

listen for the violin’s whine and the oboe’s sad skip

the swish of the conductor’s baton

listen for this one step, two step, the beat

we all, groping for each other

dance to complete

to greet and applause beyond our laws

our false creations, our fabulous flaws.

One must wonder

at this world of

so much music nobody hears.

How much better we might dance

if we did.

Like a cook smelling, taking off the lid.

One must wonder where

the life lived is hid.

Morning Moments

How do the eggs on my plate become

the words I right now state?

There is so much to do today!

Doing nothing is probably the best option.

But how does one do by not doing?

Outside, two, three, four chickadees flirting from

feeder to branch and back to the feeder.

Shaking, shrugging snow off their back

oblivious of nature and her schemes, her dreams.

I wish there were an instrument I could dip into my coffee.

It would tell me of all the hands that have touched this brew

and bring me back to the field where it was born.

Two things I love the morning for –

1. Waking up to discover what’s new in the world!

2. The emptying. A bowel movement that lightens and sends me out into the day.

When does the morning end?

With the closing of the door and the starting of the car?

With the splash of water on the face?

With the last gulp of the first coffee of the day?

With the precise pointing of the clock or the warm, winking of the sun?

Morning. A kind of hangover so drunk we are of sleep.

Take This Poem Of Mine

Take this poem of mine

and rip it from your heart

for it is there – finished

it just needs your start.

Take this poem of mine

and remember through

the pain this place parades,

remember the words

each sound a blow to the head

a wage that is true.

Take this poem of mine

and wear it

a yellow star of David

a flag, a declaration

that this blood crazed world of

mundane murder

will not seep into your

more red, more rare heart.

Take this poem of mine

and read it aloud

to your too true children.

Read it in a voice

that sends, that shows

the same sign

that is all song, all sense that flows.

Take this poem of mine

and tear it up.

Digest it, mend it,

be it

and walk on and of this world

as it

a song that is free

singing in each of your steps.

Take this poem of mine

weak like a calm wind

slow like the forest’s green

young like a motherless child

simple like spring’s sun

take this poor poem of mine

and make it your own.

Only then shall the doors open

and the wind wander through,

only then will the heart rise

and the act be what we do.

Take this poem of mine …….

Why I turned out the way I am

It’s for your own good

my father belted.

My mother did the same but

at the dinner table with peas.

Mr. Drury in Grade 7 had me

write lines of PPPPPPPs

“It’s for your own good”, he opined.

Cigarettes are now 10 bucks a pack

and casinos $1,000 plane rides away.

“It’s for your own good”, they say.

Seat belts, sanitoriums and saints

always a safe, sane step away.

My wife, my ever, always wife

books me monthly to see a doctor

as much a dunce as a doc can be.

All he offers are pills and pleasantries.

Both saying, “It’s good for you!”

Wars, weddings, sprayed green lawns

papal proclamations and government edicts ….

It’s all for your own good

they declare when asked.

I am, my life now nearly done

I have yet to truly taste what

we call – free.

I followed footsteps and danced

for my own good, like I was told.

Thinking back I now know how

I came to be who I am

this man, here and now

finally at home in the world

on edge, now so aware

of what really is good for me,

my flusher broke.

It’s like one day you wake up

And realize there ain’t no jello tree

and the gingerbread man has

run out of your dreams or

you find out the dictionary

was written by a dyslexic pedophile

and you head out the door to

write your own.

Antigua, Guatemala

October, 2014

Stolen Elegy

Oh the end game of i

to have bounced from country to country

or danced among the silent letters of time

to have been part of Marseille, of Seoul, of Carlsbad

of Canada and of the Alps

to have returned at the time of tin terror

to this earthy, giving land

to Antigua, to Guatemala and to those places

where the Mayans met the Spanish and they mixed their blood,

to have sauntered through the mist and mystery of early morning Prague

to have survived this house of mirrors, this life

to have sought in vain, the always in the eyes of one woman

to have questioned old wisdom, new wisdom, this empty modern

to have seen things as they are

death, the clear morning, the forever sky and the tender blooms of spring

and to have seen the horror, the always deep end

except for that moment, the old lady in Kiev handing me a pen

a face that does not want you to forget it.

Oh the end game of i

perhaps no more, no less that u.

October, 2014