Somnolence

I am too much a sleeper,

too, too much a sleeper,

and here in the wreck

of the day I will sleep no

more on tangled bed.

I have broken windows

with my fist, and now I find

I can no more distinguish

skin from soul, nor mouth from mind,

and I must confess:

I am afraid.

In the empty boxes and the

scattered glass, the signs

may still be read: here is

umbra, penumbra,

here are vault and vine.

We have seen your splendid

instruments for the getting

of grief—I looked left

and the wall bled right.

Hooded eyes that sting

for sleep, and there is water

in them, a sea within the skull.

Ah, Lord—another day.

Yet another day.

Let this book be

my blood and bone—

reclined in chair,

let there be

words for me to live on.

Man is the making animal:

may the made bless the maker.

Elegy for the Shores

It will be good to see

the vision of the smith

in the midst of smoke

with hands composed

with shoulders set

his eyes narrowed with

the care of love

the shaper loves the shape

loves even

the thing that resists the shape

that will be formed only slowly

by the toil and the strain

The prairies are on fire

the skies are dark

but the fire does not burn

but the ashes do not choke

America that could have been

America that never was

O bright city

what has become of you

O high and shining walls

who is there to recall

your gleaming in the day

O young men

on what did you spend

your days and strength

and the sweat of your brow

and did you act in love

Who is there

to have mercy

and to mourn

What new land can we find

across what wide sea

where we can set

stones upon stones

Stones and Snakes

Remembrance is a butcher's
where lively blood
drains from lifeless things
Strange thought,
to look for succor here

In search of the rock
where the water springs
and the shoots might grow

the rock
that is higher
than my head,
that is higher than my head

the rock

Poised and hung,
positioned,
laid upon the gambrels

suspended on the
hanging-wire
between felt sin
(known guilt, the
consciousness of evil)

and the possibility of human goodness

a thought which has
for me both
power and pain
(the words alone can
give me chills)

The possibility of human goodness

The rock above my head

Et dixit Iesu:
ergo vos, cum sitis mali,
nostis bona data dare
filiis vestris...

On the Death of an Opossum

Noble liar, thy lie at last

Has come home to thee!

Thou couldst not long

Trick the trickster, Death

(Thy fate as well as mine,

The finger of almighty God

Crooked to claim thee).

This at least I can say for thee,

That death has scarcely made

Thee smell the worse, though,

Indeed, thou art now the more

Pungent since breath has left

Thy lungs (Lord, he stinketh),

But only by the thousandth part.

But, heart, dear Opossum!

This little dignity

Death has granted thee,

That thou art to me

Now an inconveniency.

I, who hated thee and thy kind

(Threadbare rats! with ragged tail),

Find thee in my way and on my mind,

Dead beside the safety rail—

And gladly leave thee behind.

Musik Macht Traurig

I went walking through

these halls like Jeremiah

in Jerusalem. This roof

will be my temple, this

stream shall be the Jordan.

The banks I will name

Mamre, though there is

here no oak (to my dismay).

How can I sing the

Lord’s song without

the choir?

Let crickets be the choir,
let there be an assembly
of stones. Exiles cannot
ask for better.

Only—my God!—let there

be a sound of thunder

and a smell of pine,

a smell of pine and

the cold salt of the sea.

The Profit and Loss

The telling of stories

now is out of fashion,

more’s the pity.

How tempting, how easy

it would be (I say in

my coward heart) to be

a prophet of the light,

herald to the sun!

Peace to the people, one could

say—even if there is no

peace. (Is there some

tincture in this tired air?

I did not mean to speak the truth.)

Peace to the people,

even peace!, and not

a voice among voices,

an uncut stone,

and blood from the mouth

and the taste

of blood

in the teeth

To California then I came,

drowning, drying—

the land of fruits and

nuts, they say with a

smirk (the despite of

ignorance being, with me

as with others, the besetting

sin). To California then I

came and sought purchase

in the sand.

I have suffered some

unlooked for revolt

of self from self, a

victory of kidney

over brain. (Some

things are too slight

for speaking, even in

the splendid silence

the pen is heir to.)

Miserere: miserere mei,

miserere nobis. (Most

merciful Father.)

Herr,

Segne dieses Haus

Und alle, die da gehen

Ein und aus.

His the kingdom (Amen),

His the power (Amen),

His the glory (Amen),

Forever and ever.

Amen, amen, and amen.

SDG

AMDG 

To RHE

As though mercy
were not a whirlwind,
nor rescue a cataract!

Have you not felt
the tremors that
spiderweb across the
seas, fractal and
fracturing, convulsing
as they pass?

Have you not
known in your
marrow the desperation
of security?
Deliver us, we
pray, from our
contentment and from our
peace of mind.

Have mercy on us
when mercy cannot
be. All mortal good—
immortal wrought.
All deeds are done in Spirit.

Pity,
love, and mercy,
love and mercy,
mercy, mercy,
mercy.

Flesh and Ink

I grow weary of lines
Drawn by human hand
Turned in and out
And away
And against
I am tired of pencil-lines

Speak to me, love
Plant words with earth and water
In my echo-chamber chest
Words grow like bones
The woven frame
The inner chasm

Weaver, hunter,
Sower, reaper,
Man of war,
And master-maker,

I tire of these pencil-lines

The Oracles of St-Etienne

Christe, eleison, Christe, eleison,
Eleison, eleison

All creatures have roots,
Bird and beast, stock and stone,
All living things have roots

You have heard the names
In passing,
Whispered through the tall grass,
Whispered through human lips,
Whispered through lips to ears

Lonesome and loving,
With pain in the chest,
Heard the names
In passing

Be kind to each other, babies,
Be kind—little children,
Love one another,
We are all the people we have
And we must make each other last

You may have felt the pinch of fingers,
But be unafraid: all hands are not
Raised in anger
Behold the mender,
Made unmade

Kyrie, eleison
Eleison, eleison

Kyrie, eleison, eleison
Kyrie

The Oracles of Fitzgibbon

You have lingered
overlong in this
abstracted air
portrait of a man in freefall

Linger, linger
little finger

Spoon and knife
croon to wife
shatter, clatter
pitter-patter

The tides ran their fingers
through your tangled hair
lady of the deep
gravity in silver light

Stronger, stronger
rumormonger

Plate and chain and iron bands
hungry men have teeth and hands

Rubber hissing on the street
abrasive to my infant sleep

Harm, charm
car alarm

Goodnight, my dear,
I love to hear
Your voice at night
By firelight


Behold the pride
of the edifice
at the moment of collapse

.
.
.
.

Enumerate

One God, eternal, one book, one church,
One lord: one kingdom given on the earth,
One Word, under two testaments,
One church, given two (or seven) sacraments
(Whether effectual or semiotic,
Ask Johnny first, then Huldrych),
In the Godhead, three persons,
At the watershed (which worsens
Or betters, as you see fit,
The church—we could argue for a bit)
Three loud dissenting voices
Making relatively low-churchly choices,
Three days complete the ministry,
Three persons amounting to a mystery,
Four gospels revealing our salvation,
Five cries to summarize the revelation,
Six centuries (and a bit) between dear Constantine
And the cataclysm they call the East-West Schism,
Eight days before the covenantal sign
(Male children only submit to it—
Girls in this are fortunate),
And the fruit of the Spirit numbers nine.
For all seasons, God gives a time—
Even (perhaps) for a foolish rhyme.

The Holy Year

Less love? Less love! Less love
cannot be the answer, mon Jean
de la Croix (not to say mein
kleiner Johann Kreuzens), never
less but more and more: love
transfigured, love restored,
regenerating caritas, some
vivified amor. Less love! you say!

Where grace is not can be no nature:
he is in all places,
he is at all times,
now in wrath
and now in mercy,
never in dilution
or diminution,
and always in grace, for

where grace is not can be no nature.
Cruciform earth, shaped in love,
that sea-green sphere of fire,
poised in air without
foundation. Wo und wer
ist sicher Grund? Der HERR.
Where grace is not can be no nature.

In Vita Veritas

I. I believe in the power of
talking bullshit, in the
surge of small words in a
small circle, in a puff of
smoke and the smell of beer.
I want to be reminded of
the petty and the stupid, so
long as we can laugh. Give
me the sacrament of armchairs,
the liturgy of liquor and friends.

II. The flame of Horeb is all-
consuming, begun without
kindling- it cannot die.
Remind me (God! I will
forget) that pity is for
others, anger for myself.

III. Pity good men because they
suffer. Pity bad men because
they are yours, your
bones, your blood, your
brothers. Pity: I have little
else, and nothing so sweet to give.

Bones Like Wax

On the sidewalk and I cannot
breathe in this melody. It tears
me to bits. Feet like drums.
Lungs like razors. The
palm is a liar's tree- why,
then, do I hate it so?

Expand, they tell you, enlarge!
Dream of empire, swing from the
heels! Craven hearts, lacking the
courage of collapse, disdaining
the bravery of cowards. To be well
is hard enough. Banality is beyond us.

Was I true? I was never true.
I am only pretending to be a
person. The savage claws and
bites himself- I have only
words. I have no words at
all. Bloody eyes and bleary
hands, I wake to greet the sun.

And Sarah Shall Have a Son

You came twisting into sight
like a world in miniature—
dark and warm and smelling
of some distant sea. Howl,
howl, distempered heart! Howl
to God and hail to God
in violent Christophany.

Teach your servant to repent—
he knows not how—teach
him to be contrite. Teach
him how to live, broken-hearted,
rejoicing, in lenten jubilee.
Behind all acts, the actor, thou—
teach your servant to repent.
He knows not why, nor how.

You drifted out, away from
sight—giddy grieving garishly—
a room writ large, a wayward
cosmonaut. You are the ghost
that haunts the dawn. You are
the stillness of the clock
in the violence of Christophany.

The Love Song of C. Robert Darwin

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art fitter, and more fertile.
Thy dark and wide-set eyes are characteristically
female traits, and therefore attract me to thee
as a potential mother. Thy shining red gold
hair is a phenotype arising from a recessive
gene, and consequently appeals to my innate
drive to diversify my family's stock
on a subconscious but profound level,
but your typically northern European
features are familiar, and therefore do not
trigger within me an aggressive response, as
to an outsider. Thy secondary and tertiary
sexual characteristics illogically but inexorably
persuade me that you are physically capable
of ensuring the survival of our hypothetical
offspring, while thy waist-to-hip ratio is
near ideal for child bearing. Oh dearest,
do be mine! At least until you are
no longer of reproductive age.

"O Lieb', O Liebe!
So golden schön
Wie Morgenwolken
Auf jehnen Höhn!"

Sigismund

Ah, my fine clear-eyed cavalier-
why, is your black heart still beating?
Why have you not spilled your acrid blood,
sticky and acidic and welling up in
the chest? Come, succumb, bleed
into that devoutly wished dissolution,
the stinging sleep, the soporific burning
of hair and bone. Here, where Eros
meets his counterpart, I will wait,
for yourself and for your posterity.

 "And death shall be no more, Death thou shalt die."

Dostoevsky Ascendant

Earth does not burn, nor
fire groan. Wheels spin into
wheels and the wheel remains.
The idols never slit the throats
of beasts but sit in solemn
frozen jubilation. You drag me
through these midnight hours
by the hair, by the throat,
by tongue and tooth. You
make me hurt, you make
me feel––cruel compassion,
you make me bleed!––and all
for naught unless you see aright.

λεγει αυτω Μαρθα οιδα οτι αναστησεται εν τη 
αναστασει εν τη εσχατη ημερα

Moving Day

I was drinking, but was
not drunk when I saw
a thing I had not seen.
When did they hang these
paintings on this wall?
A cave and ship, lighthouse
on the stony beach.
The colors look like crayon.

The blink is heavy, and I
have defeated myself again.
I run these stupid races
from time to time, though
never once have I won.
I live a life of dirty dishes.
I am every crusted knife.
I am every sticky cup.

The holy spirit speaks to me
in whispers not made of words:
we want small things to give
us pause, we want the
anesthetic of anathema.

Nine times nine thousand
are the footsteps down to
me, and I can hear the
subtle voice that calls out
poisoned names, that pimp
who pushes poems.

Homo sum,
humani nihil a me
alienum puto.

Gary Jones in January

They lied to us, as good

as lied, when they never

let us know that gray skies

are lovely, naked branches

divine. The crunch of frost

and the smell of cold earth-

these to me are bread and

wine. Bread for life and

wine for joy. 

And how shall we love each

other? Kindness is the strangest

knife, kindness wounds most dearly.

A kiss on a hairless head: the love

and light we have been wanting.

Sauvages

I am now, and will
always be, a giant
of the eye and a
dwarf to touch. Push,
press, break and cry-
appeal to the winds
if they will listen-
bear witness against
me. The winter of the
heart opens up before
you. You are the prince
of the peckish, the
king in rags, high priest
among the hay bales.

And ink shall be thy blood.

A Little Scribble

The Holy Ghost was shaking trees
on the day I went around and
I saw the world in the cool of
the evening and in a shower
of leaves. Time, as we know,
cannot be counted. Love, as we
know, cannot be felt.

What is the earth but a
footstool? What is the world
but our fertile acre, the
hunger for homeliness?

It is strange to me that
I am not falling, for
I feel the world invisible,
a gracious abyss, a divine
nothing. What is the world
but an act of God?

We are the earth, a dream
once said to me, turning
in place, gliding slowly
round again, just about to stop.

The Solar Year

There is a drift in
the turning of things-
orbits yaw, the parade
of Mars sometimes goes
awry. Not even the earth
is still- it moves, it moves!

There is a symmetry in
the rhythm of things. Things
once lost sometimes return,
sights once seen may sometimes
appear anew. They never die,
and ghosts are manifold, multitudinous.

The weary years revolve
for us, put on ceaseless display.
Boyhood reveals itself again in
every man, no woman is who
was not once a girl. Rings
are joined to rings and hung
about the neck for beauty.

There is a drift in the turning
of things, plans and planets yaw,
our parades of fancy always go
awry. Not even the earth is still-
he comes, he comes!

Janvier

Dark you were in
the red sunlight, all lovely
dark. My head
upraised, remembering
the touch of mercy,
the tender grip of graceful
grace. Come, take my
hand, crooked fingers
laced with dirty.
We two together, we two
I's, we two You's,
we two are the church
of God, the holy of unholies.

Omaha

The right will not be had
apart from blood. Blood
calls to blood beneath the
earth, dead will dead embrace.

Not a day now passes
without the meeting of some
Abel, and some Cain.
Damn you, why won't you
bastards wail?

The hand of God in this good earth,
Almighty God himself must fight.
Yahweh is a man of war, and
peace shall be his issue.

Here comes the coming of the
dawn, and what will be
the light?