He stepped onto the road with a sack full of promises.
In his solitude, he was kind to a fault.
Inside the sack were bread and two pomegranates,
and what seemed to be a black hole.
Numb with cold, blinded into innocence,
he drew me inside his fur coat.
But the heart of the coat was a gaping hole,
and I slipped away – for good.
Now I pluck teardrops from the soul of the pomegranate.
Blood drips from the night’s black cloak.
Someone fiercely stitches the dark outside
with the thread of cigarette smoke.
Whose lonely star is that one, pray tell,
that swollen red wound, open wide?
As if God draws out – with a red-hot needle –
a splinter from deep inside.
setting oneself aside
year after year
waiting for a season which never arrives
cliche as it is, the present is all that is tangible
so why not invest wholeheartedly in oneself
and in doing so, offering back one’s best
selfishness and naivety are a far distance from the years of wisdom accumulated
I know full well all is
well and will be
They share a tiny room
in the Galleria Doria Pamphilij,
two images of Innocent X—
Velasquez’s famous portrait
of the seated pontiff in red mozzetta,
holding a note, ready for action against
his rivals the Barberini or the English
or the Duchy of Parma (didn’t enjoy
heir cheese, perhaps) or the Jansenists
(whose rigor made them Catholic Puritans)
and nearby under Innocent’s steely gaze,
his twin, Bernini’s bust, this Innocent
with a slight grin and one eye toward
his painted likeness.
This standoff
was not with himself, the Pamphilij pope,
or his enemies, but with the sculptor,
whose botched bell tower for St. Peter’s
under Urban VIII, was Innocent’s first
urban renewal project—demolished,
along with Bernini’s papal favor.
But here we witness
the reconciliation of pope and artist,
after Bernini envisioned Navona’s fountain,
four rivers of worlds old and new,
that renewed their friendship.
So we’re left
with this delicate pas de deux between
oil and marble hiding history, revealing
a world of humanity.
Me and my doppelgänger fire
high-powered rifles with no scopes
at something that’s presumed to exist
in sudden floodlights of intent
emerging like a mushroom cloud
at the fifty-yard line
but really exists in our hearts
We teleport to the bulletin board
fastened against the right field wall
I write my name on the tired balloon
with a magic marker like others have
A vague shame laps below my conscience
While walking back, a minister’s ghost
frighteningly white and finely detailed
comes at me with anger and reproach
Instinct hardens me because he’s right
The Russian girl did it, too, I say
I’m being international, like the World Cup
Truths I know are also lies
floating to the ground
The minister wants to bearhug me
constrain unprincipled liberty
but he’s too frail to manifest
I sponge his spirit into me
embrace surrender’s weakness
But we and I are trapped in a world
that doesn’t accept surrender
All I can do is try to walk
like Taylor Swift doing Tai Chi
without an embolism or aneurysm
until my path folds in on me
like a handkerchief
The morning sun upon the trees
in a natural heaven here on earth,
a morning walk to refresh my soul
was like a new rebirth.
the night before my last semester
I dreamt the school buildings
were gutted
said my spouse “You must be looking
forward to your last semester”
