The Whiskey Priest

I thought of saying,

Look, I will take you through my self,

show you where the laceration is,

where I have been bruised. Come,

come and marvel, be taken

with my pain.

But I have changed, and

the change perhaps is wisdom.

All hearts are wounded, only

not everyone complains.

Instead of asking you to

be smitten by the scars,

I would rather go with you

to look at sunlight on the swell,

or birds flying in the city,

seeming each to be turned

and pointed by

the patient touch of God.

A Birthright, A Memory

Pilgrim

Beneath a southern sky I

despaired to find that I was

ugly. But a man is not a

stone, however stony he becomes,

so coming to this altar at the

heart of things, carving signs

of hope and warding on me,

I call: Mercy, mercy, only mercy.

                                            Priest, Prophet

                                                           

                                            We have builded you this altar

                                            (Gefühl ist nicht alles) in chalk and

                                            spittle (Yehuda ya’aleh) Is this

                                            not pleasing? (Yes, and even

                                            less than this—I cast you out

                                            I burn and blast you) And yet:

                                            There is a kind of violence in

                                            your soul (Und wer ist da?)

Pilgrim

A snarl in the bone-knit frame, so

full that I could drown therein,

full to death—Yes, yes, for having

mistaken the ache in my belly for

a righteous groan, nevertheless I

come. In the plains, in the prairies,

we hunted the beast over trackless

spaces; we pierced it and it groaned

away its life. Am I guilty for it,

or have I borne offense? Say.

                                         Priest, Prophet

                                         Not for this, not for this, understand

                                         (And yet for this also, O Macbeth of the

                                         middle managers) Some other sin is

                                         graven in you (Like some cloud of

                                         Twombly’s, like a sick brain decaying

                                         from garish roots of paint, oh!)

Pilgrim

Then could you mean—?

                                           Priest, Prophet

                                           Yes, I mean (Stop this pretense, 

                                           speak plain)

Pilgrim

They say baptism is itself a burial;

therefore the dead will surely rise. So

let it be, daughter of Chicago, let

it run like blood in living veins.

But oh, but oh she drowned at

the lake while in the house in

quiet rooms men spoke to

women, alone, and softly.

That blessed lady died, and

where, then, was I?

                                 Priest, Prophet

                                 With her and not (Living and not) For which

                                  reason you are come (For here alone is the

                                  high-flung rock, here alone is succor,

                                  here only the anointed earth) Kiss the earth

                                  and bless it (For the judge of all the earth will

                                  not do wrongly) So sagen er und wir

Pilgrim

Kiss the earth and bless it—?

So, I have, and do. And let this

earth bring forth in honor

what was sowed, life without

ceasing, and world without end.

                                          Priest, Prophet

                                          Hallelu-Jah (And the word of his mouth)

                                          For all in all is submerged but

                                          rising (Arisen and yet drowned)

                 All 

                Hallelu-Jah,

                And the word of his mouth