prodigal

pulse
faint
breathing
shallow
he does not stand a chance
beyond this night

one opportunity
he has
to make it all
right

lifts his hand
the saline drip
taped and piercing
his bruised
rice-paper flesh

holds out frail fingers
reaches out
to the steady hand
that's been waiting
half a lifetime
to come home

the last war

plodding along
this stretch of razor
teetering on the edge
of knowing
falling, inevitably
into knowing not

coming back
returning Earth
to its path of revolution

I tried better than my best
then let everything fall

and the harmony of warfare,
the worst of us all
its sonic weapons and sordid betrayals

yet the dissolution dissolved
and we were left
with ourselves

helpless

you're soiled
and neither science nor religion
can change that

there is a process for this
the shame
the self-hatred
the smell
the eyes watching
the stale passage of time
until you are redeemed
not by your own initiative
or intellect

sometimes we are helpless
and the best we can do is sit in it
sometimes it takes a mother
to make us ourselves again
to wipe us clean
and show the wide-eyed loveable
that we all can be

single thread

I guess I don't
have thoughts
so integrated and whole
that I can write a poem
any longer than a single
thread,
strung out a bit
with explication
and word association,
but a small chunk
of idea
nonetheless

our archaeology

you can be
whoever you want to be
I can be myself

for when our fear
is folded
under and over
and placed in its coffin

I sing with a bit of bread
tumbling off of my beard
sloppy eater
my lust for food
masks the anxiety
deep inside

and right here on the surface
working my heart to flutters
the terror is cleansed
in waters of mindfulness
flowing over and through

and that fear we hid
the coffin is opened
and the miracle,
horrible within,
is revealed --
rot-toothed
and benevolent

Borges' story

it has a certain rightness about it...
he comes to their island to share his tale
of a man who saved the world
by offering himself up
to death

and once he is aloft,
a seabird, with arms spread,
shouting like the devil to be let down,
they beg the crucified missionary,
"Save us, please, save us."

Borges nailed it --

for the one who fails us
is neither savior
nor storyteller

but ourselves

believing the lie
that happiness is to be found
in some ancient strangers' Stoic sacrifice
in our lovers' holy ocean-green eyes
in our own heroic efforts

layer after layer/my heart broke -- double poem

dropping
through layer
after layer
through lonesome levels
of learning, aching
laying down
on sunlit night
dark sky
ablaze,
broadcasting
our love
through stars, moon,
telecommunication satellites

***

my heart broke
when I broke hers,
my learning left me

no learning follows
into the space of loving

I fumbled;
my coat got caught
up on the hook

I hung, suspended
looking down
at the door
quietly closing
after her

Ellie

“Hallelujah!”
she caws
at this Starbuck’s
in downtown White Plains

on her wrist
a bracelet
with the word “hope”
engraved

“Lion of Judah!”

she shows her ring
to the young army officer
who is fixing his coffee
at the counter

“What is this?” she demands of him

“It’s a peace sign,” the soldier smiles
no one can resist
the coyote spirit
of an old Christian woman

“I saw him in person!”
she confides to me

“Who?” I ask
somehow knowing
full well

“Yeshua!”

and I,
a spare part
in the day
to which Ellie
is the main fixture,
believe her