I have seen Life’s face Today and I am somber (Unsettled may be best); Shall the face of He be so Bewildered? So Shadowed— So sequestered? As if I could reach out a Sparkling arm to Life—a lifesaver— In time—before his mighty hulk Descends into the deep Water—? What lies Beneath my Hope? What burrows sub-level In the heart’s wet chambers? The cold Atlantic water will Swallow him up, when all he Ever really wanted was tether, Dock, harbour. Within A circle of belonging. A calm little cove that says: Welcome. Again And again and Again.
I started a novel. It’s scary. Not the novel. Well, it is going to be scary sometimes. But the act of it. The writing down things unbidden things did not sound realistic in the how-to books (it sounded safer) but seeing it happen in real-time is scary. Things start to grab at your pen things dart about your room things shadow the paper so it never remains purely white or yellow in candle-glow— but gray and hard to follow. I need to write this down; and so down I shall write it. Nail by damned cursèd cof fin n a i l .
You derail me— Like a cool freight Train and I lose My way veer so far off track We both know I won’t make it Out And you just keep Rolling on You Have agendas Depots Promises to keep I fall down through Flamboyant green woods Dark and unfamilar Trees snap My wake scarred earth And fuel leaking ember sparks flying
Heap of coalfire Twisted iron glowing Glass and heart pieces Like Parade candy All over the ground
Torn wood catches And I am aflame Like a silly Valentine In this absolution
Savior Love— Is speaking His licking tongues Sharp and hot As any devil’s tail
Choking smoke billows can be seen A hundred miles away From this wreckage
Love says trust me And your heart breaks Again, like a stone That isn’t supposed To fracture, By some ponderous law of pain Or physics—I say If breaking my heart 10 times or 100 Pushes me, like a Demi-urge, toward a kind Of deeper Love more meaningful Existence—then, Yeah. I’m ok with That.
Tonight—on this eve of wind and frozen white, nothing curls warm and right, souls are shivered ice. A last-one- of-the-year night; empty tracks are lost in snow, tumbling like forgiveness from an endless sky; no stars, only pride, sharp and aching for a fight; and Time sinks down for the weight of it. A train came and went, once, on New Year’s night; its lone whistle, crying—and I am still here at the depot; no one is coming on the next train for me.
You, there, that torch in your fist, stone-green stare like a lady of the sea, indigo water lapping at your feet. I met you in a vision from Battery Park; a painting from the early Hudson school of trappers, selling fur to hat-wearing women in corsets laced by whales and expectations strolling along the Avenue of Freedom. I remember my little girl touched a gilded replica of your crown—spikes sharp as sunrays—not brassplate; copper; like new pennies: Honest Abe watching (heads); peering out between Memorial pillars (tails); like a man unaccustomed to karma; kept like a prisoner, confused—looking out for an eon, now two, from behind those white marble bars.
It’s clever, pure love; like a rare bloom, plucked pale blue roots and all from a jungle, where it always rains. And you pot it— on your windowsill, ring stains marking where you watered last, in New York City.