LENT
I grew up between the stations of the cross.
on the bus, the old ladies crossed themselves as they passed the church
the secret hierarchy, scented and costumed,
stood behind every curtain.
My fascination with Lent,
and the strange juvenile sacrifices my friends devised:
Giving up chocolate, a certain TV show, bubble gum--
On Fridays, they ate fish.
I swore to god with impunity, leveling my adolescent voice
against all his works, both good and evil,
unconcerned by the threat of any future consequences.
On those Fridays, God interfered and terrorized us
in his silent blankness
disregarding our existence with his solemn nonexistence,
so different from the pageantry of Sunday
with its bells and laughter.
On Sunday you put in your time and you were done
(and I always envied the Catholics with their train-like schedule of masses)
but Friday was oppressive in its silence, a faint cruel whisper
that you were somehow not doing enough.
My friends and I hid inside,
they looked to me, as an outsider,
hoped I would not be weighed down by it,
but I fell in anyway.
We plotted softly in the backyard, had a whole regime laid out,
dark clouds notwithstanding.
We took shovels and dug a pit behind my garage.
Although we could hear that large voice somewhere in the distance,
we did discover that when you dig, all you find is dirt.
******
ORANGE
they let loose the gifts of civilization:
five-thousand pound bunker busters,
or whatever they are calling them now,
fitted with tiny brains,
now "smart"--
brains with no conscience,
savoring their work
as the lives blink out like stars.
Famous men mouth words, their gruesome smiles
just that much
brighter under the lights.
Polls are taken--yes! We agree! Of Course!
Listen, I think you can hear them
dropping these perfect soldiers
from the planes--
I saw it on TV--they have no souls,
yet seek out souls to kill.
The wail of dying carries only a few hundred feet--I thought I
could put my ear to the ground and hear it--
no, we are protected from it.
But I could not find it in my heart to be immune to it.
This is our alert now--orange
the sky orange, orange
glowing so very brightly into the Arabian night:
our own progeny, posing in fatigues on the sand,
grim smiles.
Goya said it best: "Great deeds--against the dead!"
******
THE LIST OF PETTY THINGS
Here is the list of beginnings
here is the list of ending small silences
and when we turn back towards it,
it reassembles as the list of petty things.
The first blue: cobalt.
It was part of a wall or a shadow,
interrupted with a small high window,
white trimmed.
Very neat I'm sure, I did not yet have control of my own space.
The first dream: fire.
Shouting.
A door.
The first angry word: no. And no again.
I learned to say it quietly, behind a closed door, mind set.
The first pleasure.
The first large clear voice.
The first view down that long barrel.
The first intoxication.
The first scar, the very first scar.
******
N.Y. vs. KANSAS CITY ONE OUT MAN ON SECOND
He.
Waits.
In the game you lean forward,
you wait.
The smack of leather on leather
wood on leather
the smack of dead things, on dead things.
Under the lights, her cramped dark fingers--
delicate, even sewing
straightening the leather just so
seams pierced around the core
circling, now, and before, and now again
never a final stitch
stiff-backed, dead things on dead things,
as the clock ticks toward darkness and the long walk home
the shallow stab of the needle
the stacked, finished balls in the corner
ready to be taken from her, shipped away
and rubbed by someone who
will never think of her.
He leans forward
he waits
leaning through his child's eye mirror
the beauty of his past retreats,
edge cracking suddenly,
scattering silver dust and lamp black
at his approach.
His present reeks of formaldehyde
he floats in place in it.
Under the lights,
teammates flash abruptly like meteors
against the vivid green,
brown-red dust kicked up as they circle,
now, and before, and now again
as the game unfolds, like a lotus
in all its glorious entanglements.
A foul ball makes the stands
rolls toward him on the beer-stained concrete
closing his hand over it
he feels the remembered warmth of its construction
what sacrifice was offered for this precious gift?
He leans forward,
he waits.
unlike the ball thrown back to the pitcher,
things never return to their state of grace.
********
WHAT IF WE NEVER GET FAMOUS?
What if we never get famous?
What if we can never quit our day jobs?
What if we get old and not famous?
What if we get old and we have to grow up
and we still have our day jobs
and we are still not famous?
What if we have to stop pretending?
What if it turns out our parents were right,
and we really should have taken up something
that we can fall back on?
What will we tell the kids?
Maybe it would be better if they didn't know,
Allen--you know--he wrote that poem
about how he saw the best minds of his generation
destroyed by madness--
but they were all famous!
Don't you think that would be a good trade-off?
*******
HALLOWEEN 1974
It was your voice on my phone answering machine.
it was your voice stranded between continents
in an airport somewhere, bored and lonely,
with the bad aftertaste of airline seafood still edged on your
tongue
in between flights
staring at propellers, haze, and sunset
through the canopy roof
picking up the phone because that moment had come
when the thought of me entered your room.
it was your voice on my phone answering machine.
the requirement of guilt and death, lingering in the foul air.
Three things I have known about you.
How your Mother was a small time crook
with big ideas
who stole her parent's life savings
and always lived just one hour ahead of the police
and who once kidnapped you and moved you to Florida
claiming you were just going there on vacation.
And how one night
stumbling home half-drunk at 4AM
singing out loud to no-one in particular
--George Jones: All I Have to Offer You Is Me--
I opened my front door
and found you on my couch buried deep in a girl
you didn't even want
making a sound like I don't know what
reflected moonlight caught your savage eye
you closed the lid
but
I had already seen--
cum and blood and Lou Reed singing Heroin
out of that portable stereo your mother had abandoned
the record set to play over and over and over--
And Halloween.
She
was smiling on the cold floor
late late afternoon
wind bending the cornstalks
sun slit through heavy curtains
it seemed wrong
she smiled, couldn't talk--you stroked her face
dark room, smelling of sweat and cigarettes
sprawled over the bed, head downward
hair strung out across the tile floor,
glistening deepest brown across black and dust
we spoke--she didn't
it seemed wrong--what could I say
wasn't it Halloween?
And as we drove her to the hospital
you sat in the back seat, I could see by your expression
that you might have jumped from the speeding car
at any moment, pulling her behind you
propped her up under a tree by the roadside,
performed rituals that you thought might have brought her
back--
I could certainly understand it:
to bring her back we thought we would have
wrapped our own hands
around a razor
and squeezed,
each daring the others
and let the warm dark fluid stain our fingers
grimacing but not allowing ourselves
the relief that comes with a shout
and releasing, and
resisting anger,
resisting that
one
last
gasp
of the surprise of pain--
the tattoo of loss upon us,
the way its black spiderweb crosses the skin.
I just sat and watched the sky for a long time afterward.
And Lou Reed sang in the background:
I have made
a big decision
I'm gonna try to nullify my life
cos when I'm closing in on death
you cant help me not you guys
and I guess that I just don't know
and I guess that I just don't know--
It was your voice on my phone answering machine
because that moment had come
when the thought of me entered your room.
*******