Abandoned Summit
The crumbling chapel,
windy stone face
below a village body,
ocean at the feet;
an orphan clawing up the old mount
where scrawled text became divine,
stepping upon the gravel grounds,
the slow turn of his head,
slumped shrubs and casual wren,
unsure where the monks have gone,
watching a hawk leap off a cliff
and swoop down to a prey
not even God can see,
but here are olives
dangling trees
feeling the dirt
and rock
sliding with the last
of the holy men.
The Bishop of Rome
I sometimes imagine Pope Francis
like all the other popes,
walking back to his bedroom
after a long day
giving speeches about God,
a college lecturer of divine order,
at night coughing bedside
where he will
communicate with God,
dragging urine
after pissing on the toilet seat,
shitting fettuccine and baked chicken,
in the back of his mind
lawsuits and payouts
eight hundred and eighty million at a time,
shuffling priests from country
to country like supreme commander,
and protectorate of pedophiles,
the most prolific of them all,
but mostly thinking
of tomorrow's script,
a theatrical pivot to the left,
a strong conservative
acknowledgement,
and I often read stories of vigilantes
gunning down or righteously lynching
the depraved adults who exploit
and abuse children,
laughing in absurdity; how we too
have it in the back of our minds,
just like Pope Francis,
it has become a part of the job,
part of our expectations,
if it was anyone else,
corporate headquarters
would be closer to hell
than the unfaithful depictions of Christ,
but St. Peter’s Square
was beautiful as ever,
in line for many hours last week,
thinking of the children
and scarred men prone to suicide;
I see a blood-stained cassock,
the Sistine Chapel
on fire.
The Way of Things
There are times
when I close my eyes
in the garden
beside potted plants,
and the rain
is enough to drown
my spirit,
and seeing you still
on the porch,
water washing over you,
at midnight when coyotes
are howling far from their den,
devouring the sick,
the dying
I say,
don't worry
I've thought of killing myself too,
and all revolutionaries
want to return
to a place they used to be,
you must understand how it is;
the museums are filled with them,
faded things of dead artists
dust worth fortunes,
reanimated by the youth
unaware and dreaming
of paradise lost,
not knowing the old wither
in their menagerie of memories;
how young felt,
how sex felt,
how not caring felt.
Dance there, wet and bitten,
drill oil while you can, sit
on the long side of a pier;
some ponds are stagnant
some lovers are killers,
find heaven in the gills
of the day's only catch,
be attentive to the effortlessly beautiful;
bluejays, wildflowers in spring lush,
forests dense enough to hear rituals,
let life congregate
all around you, and reanimate
boxes tucked away in the attic.
Don't wait until the end,
but you will,
we all do.
Fragmented Body
Saturday, my son was small enough
to disappear into a field of grass,
and become one with worms traversing
red dirt like the inner core of a planet.
Scarecrows bending to Autumn wind,
wheat high enough to think of horror,
a flock of geese migrating overhead,
he points and imagines his arms wings;
the world offers us a breath
and reminds that in every well
is not a monster, but water.
If my son was alone, he’d be surrounded
by gardens of jasmine and juniper,
gooseberries on the tip of his rosy boa tongue,
a prairie, and him leaving behind a farmhouse,
but sometimes I regret not believing in God,
and forgoing baptism.
Today, my son is small enough
to fit in the linen strips of an Egyptian priest,
pressing him into the confidentiality
of a sarcophagus. And I can't think
beyond this, like the old toad catching flies.
There is no firefly ghost, or butterfly
fluttering out of a cherished novel
that introduced literature,
and among crimson tides of red wine,
seagulls have doused themselves drunk,
but none more than I.
The dirty streets of Long Beach,
or blossoming floral mists of Kushiro,
sun rises but these blinds
have made it night,
there are boundaries, then walls,
dreary forests without flowers,
clouds camouflaging mountains,
airplanes heading into explosion,
an electric hum, fog rolling downhill;
this dark ocean used to sparkle
and the land so beautiful.
For The Empty Toy Box
Leaving my daughter alone
with a red hen, an idol,
small radio playing Sinatra,
reminding her of grandad,
and thinking
how strange
the many
she's lost,
including mom,
including everything
beyond a father
toiling with the academics.
How quickly
they left, and how soon
she arrived,
it feels like we've said
goodbye before,
in another life,
maybe this began a joke,
and it just so happened,
wiping her eyes
when we visit the dirt
that reminds
there used to be more,
there used to be castles,
and people waiting
at the airport.
The clock ticks,
empty bottle drips wine
into a stained glass,
and fruit in the freezer
begs to be eaten;
her eyes are so large
they contain constellations,
dreams in multitudes,
poetry
if not written,
will be lived,
and blood stops flowing
on late nights
when sirens come too close,
gunshots
or maybe fireworks.
My legs have become thin
and my skin even darker
walking the streets
to the bus-stop,
you see poetry in motion,
nights and days
in Long Beach,
the old man's voicemails,
waking up to his inexistence.
I have nothing but,
accrued truly little,
and none of our family,
have become ghosts
or left behind an envelope.
Now I stare out windows
and listen to the rain like geese,
a man in the next apartment
has taken too much
of something,
he is miserable,
and defiant,
and he too
has a child,
hearing doors slam
I thought the sky
had enough;
they will never
find me laying down
counting clouds
on the asphalt,
so dirty, so hopeless.
She listens to my calls,
and I put away the alcohol,
listen to each bird
how their beauty
extends to music,
and that's not enough;
money has not been too kind
funeral bills,
the cost of saying goodbye
to the already dead,
and the animal returns
when there is no food,
the pantries have closed
their arms, another girl
is fed, but mine
martyred.
I have waited
in the halls of brevity, turning pages
of a great American novel,
unable to speak,
and they are all waiting
for me up there,
knowing delusion thrives
in poverty.
Daughter,
my story is in the attic,
but yours will be a raven;
it will be magnificent;
we will look upon
these paltry sums and laugh,
and then some time gone,
you will look upon these days
and cry.
It will take some tears
to get laughter.
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