Sanctum
"This fellow," they said, "welcomes
sinners and eats with them!"
the three children settled into the table
a monstrous feast lay before their eager hands
ham and potatoes and peas awake in their sporting colors
and grace was said with a resounding "AMEN'
she
watched the ants ravage the remains
of the meagerly meal
and she consecrated with them
chanting with the growls in her stomach
McDonalds
was lined with the itinerant beggars
drawn by the-magical division of potatoes
and the multiplication of the cow's scant flesh
into the sustenance which lingered beyond taste
"Rejoice
with me!" he cries, "I have found my lost sheep."
by truckloads, in vans, endless jumble of transports
the herd of excited faces was carried
clamoring their claim, "It is me!" "IT IS ME!"
snubbed
against the plasticine barrier
his eyes jogged up and down, this way and that
the hand he sought was accompanied by a stained foot
and he yearned to touch to affirm the identity
for
the 7th time that night
the red lights flashed by the curbstone
and one more man-child blackened by lack of breath
was stashed in the medicinal purse
and chauffeured, home not stopping for the lights
"In
the same way, I tell you, there is joy among the angels of God
over one sinner who repents."
after
the fairy tale and the laughter of monsters
the beardless youth tugged at his mother's dress
"Why do we say "Our Father" ?" he shyly requested
and the moon shone brightly till the dawn.
I
will not break, she muttered,
nor bend nor sto6p nor curse beneath their silences
I will not shatter their hearts
with the hatreds cemented into these walls
as
the breakfast hour rushed out on comic strip laughter
25,000 less than awake Denverites
turned-the keys in their cars
and threw a cosmic hum towards the cloudless skies
fumbling
for her place the Abbess
began to recite the Confiteor
as Sister Jane genuflected before she crossed the altar
9/83
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Juking
on Luke 21
“Take care that you are not misled,” (Luke 21)
beware the bus driver who collects for salvation
watch the left hand of the one-legged preacher
stoop not to support the arm of the craggy grandmother
“For many will come claiming my name, and saying ...”
Burma
Shave out-haves them all!
Pepsi is the real thing!
The Yankees are Number One!
We try harder!
“Do
not follow them” is the counsel
Trust not thy brother or sister mother or child
The Spirit leaves the dead to bury the dead
And only a corpse signs the post on The Way
“But
hot a hair of your head shall be lost.”
a chilling consolation to the army of bald men
even newborns cannot be tricked by this sleight of hand
Madison Avenue lusted for the copyright to the jingle
“For
there will be great distress in the land and a terrible judgment upon
this people!”
despair at the curbstone over the last forever brown bag
flailing anger at the split fingernail
all the children were born with green eyes
The TV outage lasted for four hours: no Superbowl!
“I
tell you this: the present generation …”
has found “IT!”
new
relics of ancient script found on Egyptian toilet paper
lead by the bionic Mom and Dad
weaned on the machine begotten by the machine
only those over 6 feet tall
“
... will live to see it.”
“ ... I am he”
“The Day is upon us.”
The Pope is Jewish.
“By standing firm you will win true life ...”
as
a quaking Aspen embraces the storm
in respect for the crane who stilts on one leg
amazed at the fecal stained tramp who smiles fetchingly
stunned by the passion of a passing kiss
“The
Day is upon us”
where my hand touches air you begin
gravity is discovered as centered in my heart
words are the clothes that freedom wears
a crowd begins to hum and the Spirit strikes forth from our ears.
“Be on the alert, praying at all times ...”
Juking
on Matthew 27:46
at the turn of the corner i caught the gnarled body
on the lamp post gurgling in intoxicated tongue "Eli,Eli,lama sabachthani?"
the soap fresh face of the hooded monk
swung in golden arcs fumes to quench the stink,
and fraters in swishing dresses broke flat bread
in soundless mockery of the broken bones in his side
she
turned to me in a whip of anger
froth amused itself on her bubbling words
"You promised me!" and again "You promised me!"
I laced my shoes and forgot my handkerchief as the clock chimed and my
time was up.
not
realizing that he was a child
his arms failed and shocked his heart
as he battled to grab the shirt-collar
of the woman plunging to her death in his bed.
as
the bodies were counted
with marks appropriately placed on the ledger
the guard stifled a yawn
as he stoked the ovens for their repast.
in
dutiful disarray the garden exposed itself
flouting the offspring of wild seeds
and airborne messengers of late summer
at
the bus stop the children were arranged in proper lines
not knowing their destiny
while parents disappeared in unmarked cars
and left indecipherable messages on bloodstained papers.
But
the others said, “Let us see
if Elijah will come and save him.”
9/83
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An
Editorial Never to be Printed
they burned witches in Boston
and Cotton Mather embraced himself in prayer
praying for their soul's salvation
with words drawn from the scabbard
of wild men's yearnings
i
stood at that spot in years gone by
placing my feet upon the shadows of his footprints
and i recited his prayers
but this time they were for him, alone
when
the subway noisily awakens the avenue
the screeching lamentations of burning tongues
fade into the overwhelming smiles of outsized billboards
advertising new slogans with which to bait the witches
Boston
is dead and has died too many times
after resurrections magically staged by Madison Avenue
but the ardour of the witch hunters is yet requited
as guide books are spewed in Sunday additions
to the Sports Section and tacked on to churchly bulletins
take
fear you witches and seeds of the Black Rose
the sweet rain which has fallen to nourish you
has raised the curse of the Crystal Knight
who is relentless in pursuit of the Holy Grail
which is stained with your Ancient Blood
9/83
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Franciscan
Monks, Indiana: Many Moons Ago
they move slowly by each other's shadows
rushing
their prayers towards the morning light
machines of dutifulness
cracking out codes from ancient scripts
as
they assemble at their terminus
slips of incense bind them together
as common breaths are startled by chants
of "Awake! Awake! the Son has arisen!"
in
the midst of what dawn exposes as splendor
the stealth of ages
residing in golden memory and bejeweled hopes
presents itself in the mockery of saltless bread
will
they remain forever but each other's shadows?
craving a sunlight which sets in a foreign land
calling forth a voice which speaks a strange tongue
will
they remain ... are they still there?
i
left 20 years ago, a deaf and dumb
cripple, seeking a cure, a touch of a hem
as
i watch other shadows
on sunless morning i wonder
who hears the chant
"Awake! Awake!"
?
8/83
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The
Hot Spot
it was, they said,
the right spot
sit here, stand there, kneel here
with thick calluses on my knees
and thickened calves made strong
through walking the outside Stations
I savored the comfort of their words
who
is youth to say, "Is this it?"
"Is this all?" “I want more!”
when the wizened and the wizardly
shake their heads and flail their arms
shouting, "This is it!" "Enough! Be satisfied!"
the
calluses I now bear
cannot be scraped by sharpened knives
for they reside within at that spot
which no monastic map plots
twenty
years of stumbling
through alleys and across raging highways
has left me lean and clean of tooth
no
fat monk have I become
in transvestite garb and purple comfort
no mastery of the ancient tongue is mine
no grave with cultivated lilies is reserved for me
the
face I now bear
is ugly with the scars of lashes
meted out in the public square
and etched by private pains only lovers share
the
wines of the world have long gone to vinegar
and the clothes I wear no longer drape my fears
I have stood in the endless lines with the lost
and find that the striking of the clock indicts not me
I
have played the game from many hands
and cursed my luck in foreign tongues
and welcomed the morning with farts and groans
and lied to many as I sought another truth
the
day breaks most often as my dog barks
or my kid walks into my room, "Dad are you awake?"
and I swing my leg of lead onto the rug
and rub the sleep of lives now past
and celebrate the spot wherein I awake
it
is the right spot
9/83
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Who
Was She?
they crushed the flowers atop her grave
and heaved the clods of dirt against her face
with the strength of their anger and their hate
they stomped the ground, embracing her, with their curses
who
was she that inspired such rages
who called forth tremors from behind the heart
who shook them so and tore them apart?
was
she mother, sister, daughter or lover
what role did she play, what song had she sung
what power did she possess while under their sun?
i
watched the scene and rushed to ask
but their lips were rock
and their wild eyes focused behind my head
i
watched the snow cover their tracks
and lay a glistening blanket over her patch
with such vengeance spread on her plot
i wondered if grass would grow in the Spring
one
day i happened back that way
and caught a young nun at her grave
i tapped her and was startled by her trembling shout,
"NO! not me. I will not raise her from the dead!!"
i
stood there in muted witness to her fear
and calculated that no grass had sprouted anywhere
what kind of person could she have been
to draw forth such ugliness from everyone?
only
on a distant day at a moment far away
did i remember why I had first gone there
someone in the street had proclaimed,
"The
witch is dead!
The mirror is broken!"
9/83