An ordinary miracle

Might  make my day  good night.

An everyday freak  hailstorm

Should soften the  certain gravitas of  agony..

Would my monday to monday/ Gone on to a good gravy, when

My  dumptruck  of good luck   sails in?

All this will be laid to waste.

Then  strong  sprouts/ in not long/ will  no doubt

Green  the  place.

.

.

.

.

.

(5 yrs back)

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BY MY BACK DOWN

April 12, 2017

 

 

Blackened breezes rustle

Sacred/ olive trees, skies muscled thick.

I took a sight that set me more lost

More sour than seasick.

I see him, knees bloodied,

Face drawn/ down

to earth.

I was being/ once/

Just a man also.

I spied/ by my back down

To my murk/

I cried/ by my own shadow,

But did not cry out,

To interrupt  all that   too intimate.

.

When I was a young/ more willful man,

I fasted/ from dawn friday

Until the last of easter/ Today

I’m past that/ I take  the families

To the best italian place,

For sacrificial lamb & blood red wine

& all before that, maybe grace.

C L U B R O O M

February 15, 2017

 

 

Wanda wanted a room

To tend to her wounds,

A room right

Door open to noirnight

Open enough not to catch her kite.

Her wounds would not be

Upon her face  facile to see.

Bruising blows  drubbing freedom

Inside, inside some

Clubroom.

..

 

 

 

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{to the rest of us that must  rest, too)

STARES

May 29, 2016

 

STARES

 

Where is the wound that shines?

Over 50 years on,

Over this, his day,  on?

My back way against all this memorial day here,

I’ll intentionally send me to a ill-shielded shy there,

Back at again to that  day where

I’m Far too young  to fathom,

Or even  notice   Yr. Crevasse,

Yr  Grande Malaise,

Yr. countdown…Yr. Pass.

It makes me madly think now

It takes  the saddest thing    to tell now..

Stuck in a stack of old NewYorkers

There’s this old drawing

A mere boy  drawn in black & white

Stands on a step of his own basement, stares,

He did look down on his own  livid  apocalypse,

His lips, and the caption say

“It’s  A.O.K.”

.

Here is the wound that shines

Tonight, a glint off yr. cracked onyx ring.

I lift it  in my open fist to my lips.

.

.

.

.

 

For always, again, rest in peace, daddy 3/21/1929-5/29/1959

“There comes a wave in the sea of men

when you can’t swim back again”  __From “He The Richmond”, Jack Bruce

.

 

ONE TIRED SEA CHANTEY,  SUNG LOW

.

As sure as our hull

Cuts ice ahead like diamonds,

Halcyon Days are just off,

Nigh,  yet I tell in a calm now;

Back,  my port’s special one

Burns no candle, windows dark.

 

Despite that raw night

(I fear more a year)

Came hard, and dispersed me onto gelid fates,

It stays back shore,

But burns deckside.

 

Endlessnesses here

Force me to take times & places,

Passed, and otherwise, &

(What was a special one)  On,

And declare the  difficulty of it all.

.

.

.

(decades on. for sara)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sure,  I’m  shopworn,

Tattered (as if it mattered)

And torn.

Surely, torn;

I don’t decide if I’m just too tired  or

I won’t give any/ to the torture

I won’t give up/

On/To  torture.

It’s nearly the nerve pills,

And endless,useless stolen coffee sleeplessnesses

Or I’ve faced my fill.

.

.

.

.

.                                          (from 5 yrs back, & here after 3am)

INEXACTLY, A DRINKING PRIEST

December 14, 2015

Inexactly, a drinking priest,

You’d think he, at least  & at last,

Classically, might be caught in

(Necessary) tight vises

Of a crisis of faith.

.

Vacuously, I’ll see  it’s not

Necessarily true.

Knowing the knowing  needs

the slowing some

the clogging some

of logic  to help the heart sing through

.

.

.

(for Graham Greene & Tennessee Williams, & their wondrous torturous sermons)

.

.

(from years back)

SILENT FOR INNOCENT

November 16, 2015

Agonizingly,  A  friend, and wise king,  He

Begged  for  his  life.

I woke  &  witnessed his naked strife.

As softly he spoke out his pleas,

Softer, I called my  “All Mercy”.

.

.

If only,  as when our women grieve,

I should wear a veil, head bent.

I would shield  my  damning  grief,

And all my disillusionments.

.

.

.

.

.                                                      (from at least 5 years back

These  agonies, stowed loud  to stoic  quiet,

Annoy her, as if their noise could be heard,

Annoy her,  every word,

Every imaginable syllable

And though a throw-away joke…

She’ll attest is a thrust attack,

Jeez  these agonies

Have me taken aback

Have me taking pills & drink to swill ’em back.

GUTS FOR LOVE (revisited)

September 30, 2015

 

REFUSING  DAWN  and    GUTS  FOR  LOVE

i)
I can Recognize, but hell,  I can’t Realize so well.
I’d drink more coffee but my cardiologist insists I don’t
I’d drink more coffee but my heart man prescribes “not so smart, man”.

I’d think more whiskey would push me to bask at last in a primal light,

but my general practitioner generally frowns about practicing until I get it right.

I’d read more but eyes see less.. I digress,

I’d come 2/pray more/give in/give more/dream-sleep in/weep for once/

walk the lit dark like I used to/ take the darklight I’ve refused to.

I can Recognize, but hell,

I don’t Realize so well.

.

.

ii)

Right away I’ve forgiven

What I’ve been given.

I might say I’ll take it

What I might now have.

I’ve taken my lot, my vacant lot.

And I’ll water down the ardent growths

That break through spots, my weakest spots.

I’ll wander down the advent of loss.

I’ll instill my wander  with intent.

I’ll start to still instill my wander with intent.

.

.

.

.

.

.

(from 2009 & 2010)

 

 

 

“If you’re really listening, if you’re awake to the poignant beauty of the world,
you’re heart breaks regularly” -Andrew Harvey
since I’ve always remedied the conscious agonies of knowing the world is filled with misery with a simple
but there is beauty in the world.
a child smiles in one of those shopping cart seats in a grocery store, one of those secret connection smiles,simple innocent soul to burdoned soul and I’m AOK for a moment.