Tuesday, April 24, 2018
Saturday, April 14, 2018
Thursday, April 12, 2018
Thanksgiving in Middle Age
Grandfather’s body gathers rain
As leaves fall from the maple,
Sodden mass with crimson veins.
I avoid them if I’m able.
I smell the pine trees’ wintering
Even in your underthings.
In morning bed there is no loss.
Sun shines in to spurn us.
Outside the loam and leaves and moss.
Nobody will mourn us.
Come my love and kiss me once.
Let this be our small séance.
Later we’ll feast on corn and beans,
The turkey that we did not kill;
We’ll feast on these and other things,
As all couples will.
Before the food, the grace and hands
Pretending that God understands.
But come my love and kiss me now:
The season’s come to reap not plow.
Posted by The People's Colloquium at 8:43 AM
Sunday, April 1, 2018
Now here's a tenebrous parable nostrum stroll, pretending to be wounded and cured inside of an hour’s own ailment, concocted by focusing unilaterally on the uneven claps my feet make to the left down the wrong way on a one way road, straight from the gates curling smoking-cold fingers inside fingerless gloves, and then evening out as my knuckles warm off and the clouds swarm low.
What does God’s dog look like collecting debts on a concealed full moon in mid-March?
An Irish wolfhound’s wet six foot-one lank lands on my shoulders too quietly (and I mean eerily quiet) patrolling the fenced driveway of a gaudy three story fortress disguised as a German chocolate cake a 64 box of Crayola crayons made sweet love to, belted by a high waisted, wrap-around porch, mall-cop monitored at every other mile-marker, “cascaded” (as the Tabor neighborhood says) with gaping soulless windows, trapped under a canopy of trees that wouldn't let a heat signature satellite sensitive, drone-photo-bombing homeowner’s paranoia through, sparing any cost... all lit from below by solar powered candle shaped lamps planted all around the manicured lawn of burning bushes, looking as if hell hath swallowed this 60’s block of Hawthorne.
This raggamuffin titan with a tail has eyes way too human and breath like cat shit and Lazarus, looking living-dead-evenly, sicks-one-to-one-deeply through the last 30 plus years it's been since I've side-hugged a stranger during Sunday service, guilting my mouth shut, lest I invite more than a long tongue kiss from this dull-faced reverent mick pooch, hoping to Christ’s seventh miracle that he DOESN'T remember me trying to steal the crucifix from the confessional at my holy communion.
Truth be told, there was a lot of shit I did wrong as a kid that I never felt all that bad about.
I never understood why I was supposed to care...
I was MADE to care… made to feel the shame all I DO is try and shake.
… I'm pretty sure the religious right and my mother's guilt kept my inner-sociopath insecure enough from truly surfacing until at least my mid-thirties…
And, father please forgive me, though I've killed myself under many a carried cross through my neighborhood streets, for the most part, there's nothing preventing me from feeling okay most of the time. But it's hard and off putting to say my hail mary’s just for the want to be left alone when the blood from my crown keeps splashing all over the crowds of cow-eyed congregants waiting 45 minutes in the rain for a blessed deep-fried-sea-salted-green olive and almond-butter-infused-vodka-waffle-cone dipped in eucharist dust at 10:30 at night… or who simply mewl around sidewalk puddles quite comfortable clustering up, awkwardly silent together for a half-mile with my impolite second-hand thunder-cloud’s-broken-stride (the surgeon general warned us all about), before continuing to drool on, further inflicting the none of us paying attention to a Marilyn Monroe-memed tinder-date conversation she's been waiting all night to wrap up with her snapchat dinner-critic insight, intimately under an umbrella for no reason other than a casual selfie, rather than moving aside a step or two so I can pass by altogether unnoticed under the otherwise charmingly stoic streetlights and glassed over gaze of the future step-father to her illegitimate children.
They said God can be found EVERYwhere… they told me I was created in his own image…
And they have the balls to tell me not to judge!?
I'd imagine on a second look, Jesus would rather flagellate himself to death than subjugate himself to half-a-million clever Facebook liked quips overheard in the streets towards his own crucifixion..!
It's the curing light of a chosen few I crave a promised dose of sympathy’s lasting temptations-snake-oil hiss hanging from fruit trees grown in the garden park blocks… but Eve has shrouded herself in Turin robes, leaving me naked to the elements of her evening, donning a sparkling silver-glittered facial, washing her good hand towels of me and my imprint… and crimes against humanity I habitually seek to absolve.
It was never causing the affliction I enjoyed, I just missed being worshiped as the cure.
And inherently, as a thief might patrol a house before it's safe to steal his way in past the guard dog under the cover of night for a broken piece of bread to feed the meek, sanctifying each step as a paradoxical sermon is revelation enough for now, before ascending that particular mount’.
… but just you wait, I'll bring about tears from your boxed-wine to blood-moon confessions, and in another 40 nights I'll turn around and come right back from the dead, I suppose, if the rock on my tomb isn't too heavy to move...
Posted by The People's Colloquium at 4:09 PM