Tony, Tony, turn around, something’s lost and must be found. –Traditional Catholic Prayer
I won’t ask you to “turn around,”
even if sometime today
I lose something which must be found—
a tautology? It’s your day to relax,
take some time off from our relentless
petitions, searches for car keys, cell phones,
wallets, pets. If I lose
anything today I’ll let go of needing
to find my ambitions, my weight-loss program,
my deadlines, my childhood.
Fiery preacher that you were,
you’d probably tell me to let go of even more—
curious, no one recalls your pleas for penance.
But here in the depths of the library today
I’m surrounded by your legacy,
said to be promised by the Poverello himself,
to lead all those enshrined here, scholars
who’ve probed great mysteries in study.
The caveat: not to lose
the spirit of prayer
and devotion.
Will you help me find that, Tony—
tomorrow?
On the Joy of Writing 360 Degree Sentences with Li-Young Lee and T.S. Eliot
Thomas, the crab
grows old he
grows old
comes scuttling
meek every week
to a room full
of women
and plants himself
properly
measures everything
for the scope
of afternoon tea
while whispers waft
harried as fleas
chased by swatters—
they do not
want him there,
and this proves first
impressions
are often correct,
because to resist such
tsunamis will make
a man into sushi
toppings—for God’s
destination
ever was a child’s,
and God’s
elastic mind
lets me start over
when peaches
fall from the bag
and the blossoms
are gone.
Li-Young Lee,
why interpret joy in this
failure and decay,
with darkness rising at
every passing step,
fear collecting
as light through
the nimble stitches
of dust—don’t you shake,
and tremble,
thus etherized?
Thomas, such words,
seeming unfortunate
fortunate, do not
tell truth
and only point—sir,
I can no more drink
the word water
than feel the word
fear, but when I
sprawl on a pin,
wriggle on a wall,
words are always there,
as when pulling
the last crop of cabbage—
the ground was cold,
my feet so warm,
and I planned
something for mother—
and ask me where
was I Thomas—
was the truth
in those words, or
was I making it up
for you riding
the back of your crab
“Mr. Prufrock”
in a salon
in London with uppity
women who will not
sing to either of us
talking
of Michelangelo
to put us off?
Li-Young Lee your point
is well received,
perhaps I should
modify my beliefs.
Thomas, your wit
is amazing.
Lee—You really think so?
Don’t take my word for it—
everywhere you look,
in ten-thousand directions,
you untangle long locks
and need no answer
from me—flow
and making return,
the fruit of Eden
rots in the ear
of listening night
bending down
to hear your lost childhood,
struck like a lantern’s
match gone out,
leaving a fixed mark
that will move
with the coming
of the waters—
my gaze to cloud
the computer screen
dividing the room
where she undresses,
the bottoms
of her trousers
rolled, sucking
on a peach.
Webster’s dictionary defines
perseverance
as some old bullshit.
Stretch those vowels out in your head
to make sure you’re reading this right.
That’s some old buuuuuullshiiiit.
I’ve been up to my neck and nostrils
in difficulty and opposition
and it ain’t getting me nowhere.
Fuck a bunch of fortitude.
I’ve watched my kicking kinfolks
sink below the steadfast surface
and drown.
I’m tired of persevering, treading water.
I never was a strong swimmer.
Besides, I’m in my barn burner phase.
A faltering firestarter with both bare feet
on the ground, all sparked up
with reluctant rage
that gives me god awful heartburn,
anxious and ready to let the cows out
to make a break for it
before I toss a match.
What does it take to glow in the dark
to hum when there’s so much static?
Hail Mary, you are full of grace
what does it take to hear you?
Does it wash over in the sorrowful mysteries
or bead between each bead?
Does it breathe past the profit & loss, the
equity shakes and powerful fakes?
Does it trespass without permission
walk into our deepest dreams?
Does it quake the vision, abolish permission,
require a good act of contrition?
Does it strong arm trust, lean on or bust
our vision of qualifying for a home?
Or does it come on a full moon night
as fireflies align to write so bright?
Everything’s all right ~ trust the glow ~ you already know ~
you know ~ you know
For Father’s Day — The ultimate summer grill accessory: A wireless smart thermometer. Stick it in your food, cook as usual, the thermometer will notify your smartphone via Bluetooth when your meat has reached the ideal temperature.
He had no smart phone or Big Green Egg,
casual when he cooked, throwing together
the eggs and ham and toast he had refined
in his teens working the Abington Grill.
Things were simple. Leave your coat where
it doesn’t belong, he’d throw it on the floor.
When his dream of going into space scared you,
he’d remind you some things are worth dying for.
Never bought what he could not pay for,
so cars were not spiffy, but they got him
where he needed to go – house calls,
the hospital, Chinese restaurants.
Welcomed the invention of penicillin,
polio vaccine. Wished in retirement to join
the Ship Hope, share his skills and treat
the sick in Central America, Southeast Asia.
He longed for harmony among races
and ethnic groups, longed to see his kids
settled, the Phillies win the pennant. Hoped
that he had done some good in this world.
In the end, his heart dragging, wanted only
to believe in a heaven where he and his buddies
could meet up and play golf once again. No fancy
device for keeping score. It never mattered.
Being a Chicken Nugget Child felt like:
Standing on metal vents with bare feet.
The cold air-lifting me towards
the soup bean pot boiling mystery.
The space between hot and cold
where goosebumps form
Cold cement porches with Kentucky blue paint
Layered like tree rings telling time
in lead paint and limestone rain.
I’d pick daisies and deliver them
to the porch swing to begin my dance
back and forth toward commitment
man’s whatever it means to be a wanted woman
What did I know about “he” or “love” or “me”?
I just knew “not”
As an only child up a holler,
my first word was No
Not yet
Not me
Not ready for much more
than blooming
Just blackberry fingers and sunsets
that lingered deep into the pocket secrets
of the woods like a best friend who
always stays the night.
You had me at the capital
letter, seven words ago
back at the big
bang of the sentence.
E.g. When we had a discussion of sea
lettuce habitat that you began
with engines,
with those fiber
optic dangles of blonde. Sun
glasses black, circumference
of satellite dishes,
an ocean seizing
with the romance. Shapely, conversations
curvaceous, impossible to capture
in mirror or telescope, no matter
how far back the cinematographer’s
standing,
You have centered me, surrounded
in the open quotation arms filled
with cantankerous panache,
What fortune it is to suck
moments of gas
on this planet
beside you.
