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?