Hangover

Gray skies

like my father’s overcoat

with only spider streaks of sunlight.

My capricious mirror shows me old,

bulging with last night’s drink.

Louie the cat stares patiently

at her empty bowl.

There is nothing to give her.

A hollow pain repeats itself

as I dress in faded clothes.

I search for something of you

to wrap around me, to smell you.

I stare emptily at the cat

and the empty bowl.

Antique Lamp

Old lamp and shade

early fifties

contemporary then

late bloomer now.

You have stared at me

throughout this love

saying nothing

but showing age

upon my bedside crate.

You look at me

with dusty base, frayed chord

I wonder if romance

has ever passed your way,

some french provincial doll

with bows and frills,

with an eye for the quiet

old fashioned type like you.

 

 

 

City Graves

“Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God.”  Luke 12:6

Somewhere in the big city slush

in snow covered alcoves

a sparrow lies crushed and trampled,

unseen, unknown by busy citizens of God’s green marble.

No obituary given.

No seven p.m. news report

on channel three with Cathy McGee

proclaiming “Local bird is murdered in Manhattan.”

Apathy, a state of no mind

in predominantly God look-a-likes,

an incurable addiction crushing

man’s soul like a vise.

The city streets keep humming

melodies of coming and going.

The sparrow’s friends mourn their brother’s frozen corpse

Disfigured and wedged to his concrete grave.

Temples

In villages of old

everyone gathered

at the well, source

source of life, source

of social discourse

primitive but needed

as was flint and bone.

Gods were abundant,

penises of rock,

fertility, and virility,

expressions of existence.

Today we meet

In temples of stone

with penises hidden

egos as small

as the crucifixes we wear.

Handicapped

She stepped out of her wheelchair

into someone else’s strength.

Wrenching sinew and bones,

She stepped once then twice

to her empty bed where she will pray

to her covers, where a mythical god

will never answer, nevertheless, she prays.

In time her twisted existence unwinds.

“Praised be.” She cries unclearly.

Her strength the strength of others

yet her knotted fists say otherwise.

Incoherency as defined

in shrill cawings, clotted throatings,

each twitching  articulates meaning.

They are signs of life

only she understands

if understanding is needed.

She states the human statement

in pullings and draggings

happening behind closed doors.

There is courage in her bathroom,

at the kitchen table where food,

yes there is courage even in moving

her mouth, tongue, teeth, spoon.

Motion the unbending force

which greets her with every weave of survival.

Each day a battle, we know battle.

We do not know her battle where guns are missing.

We say handicapped, she says something

few can understand, few can feel.

Courage you see lies somewhere in her being,

a camel in a cave, a camel unwatered,

unfed for unnumbered lifetimes.

We say handicapped.

She says everything.

 

Touched Too Close

Waiting for you

like a brass hinge

waits for a grip,

I place demands

upon my sanity

wondering if time

erases

carbon smudges of loneliness

 lining my face.

Wondering too

if balloon expectations

climb too close

to the embattled sun and burst,

falling far from where they could’ve been.

You’ve touched me too close

for me to ever forget

being untouched.