Posts for June 7, 2016 (page 2)

          It does not bother me to say this isn’t love,
          because if you don’t want to talk about it,
          then it isn’t love.  (Adam Duritz, Anna Begins)  

My heart doesn’t work right.
Forget grammar,
let’s not be trite,
let’s not stammer,  

forget grammar,
I’m talking about love.
Let’s not stammer,
or discuss details of could’ve,  

I’m talking about love,
though all you do is argue,
or discuss details of could’ve,
not about a multitude of two.  

Though all you do is argue,
let’s not be trite,
not about a multitude of two,
my heart doesn’t work. (Write!)

Come find me

Along the breaded shores

Of the chocolate seas

Whisper to me

Of taxable revenue

As per code 37723

Allow me to introduce

Myself

Over and over again

Come find me

And come rescue me

From each uncertain end

I watch you through

My narrowed eyes

Astigmatized, ablur

To read your words

And draw from them

A self you never were

How fondly fingers fondle

Shadow spectres void of space

There is no you

That will ever do

Or take your shadow’s place

Fluctuation
A ripple, perpetual
Decline, eternally

It’s the Saturday after Christmas
and the substitute organist is playing carols.
We turn to the entrance of the church.
“There seem to be more baptisms lately,”

says my spouse, who later whispers “well done”
when Father Prabell’s homily segues from generation gaps
disrupting holiday gatherings to the Holy Family
not understanding that Jesus was on a mission.

After the family gathers at the baptismal font,
after the water sprinkling, oil pouring, and candle lighting,
after the change into a white baptismal gown,
Father Prabell presents the newest member to the congregation.

He speaks directly to baby Graham John,
explaining the rites. He carries him
down the center aisle, up one side aisle,

over to the left transept, and crosses in front of the altar
to show Graham John the baby Jesus lying in a crèche.
The child is asleep when the priest

returns him to his father.
As we leave the cathedral, 
we long to touch the newborn’s hands.

 Just in case they boast a monster
like Barbie, a Polly Pocket, blue lego, hardened ball of playdough
or a ghastly spider on retreat from the garage,
one at a time, the boot turns upside down
then rests on the floor  

One row at a time, strong, rough fingers
pull thick black laces taut
and tie them at the high top of each filthy, steel-toed shoe
After getting up before dawn for 25 years of loyal service,
he could do this in his sleep  

A quick peck on the forehead,
keys, wallet, doubled Walmart bags with lunch,
he slips around the kitchen corner and out the door
His last known presence before arrival of 4pm’s welding grime—
The faithful sound of easy-going black work boots on the concrete drive  

My eyes sting with sentiment, see blurred objects all around
Throat muscles tighten, clamp vocal chords
Swallowing the mass of emotion is futile
as a result of the scene’s recognition and power—
this space connects worthless black soot and brilliant worth  

His character, integrity, and work ethic rules
the monotony, the repetition of roughly 6,000 work days
This mighty reign speaks the language of constant love and devotion
With each safety check for hidden objects, tug at dirty boot laces, and a day’s completion, holiness abides.

Sloping down the hill
in Alfama she clicks the cobbles
with new flats

unmarred by the old streets.
Purse strap clutched, her legs
stretch the pencil skirt beneath
the sleeveless tank.

The slope of her shoulders,
strength of her collarbones,
bring purpose to cool morning.

Too early for sunglasses,
fresh plucked eyebrows
serve to frame her face.

Arch, tight, precise-
they lift as her bracelets
hail a taxi.

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 i 
 ^ (    ) !
    I  
 T      bo    y      
    -Firs                jus
just           if  I
,. .       #ha ha hash 
* “ `tis bet
i I  iiiii
–––––  –– —-–— — –— –– –––  – – -—  —
                    it is best that i never begin
     lest I define

myself