Monday, November 2, 2015

David and Saul

David and Saul

Art is not springing into the sparkle
of the Eyes.
David did not flex for Michelangelo—
His audience was sheep.
No, nor did God sing wine
Into the multitudes of faces
but as an afterthought
to his love for his mother.

They both knew the running Father,
Running over himself in love.
 They knew what I did not:
That it is the cowards
who are jealous of the crown of laurels.

I was jealous. I did not know
That I was already loved.
And that there was no departing-
No, I saw not the gold crown which circled
me from my mothers womb.
And so I screamed
and roared; I vowed to to devoured the victor
And whoever won applause, even if I loved him too,
Because whoever had love had
Taken it from me.

Art is the boy who discovers the wolf
Inside himself
And who slings himself into it.
He is the arrow and he notches himself upon the lyre.

Sharpen the arrow, Artist, and
Squeeze into the stone
The magnitude of the mountain
From whence it came,

And come and hunt our wolves.

Sunday, July 26, 2015

A Candle in the Wind.

The little string man
flickers, sputtering light into
the sodden evening,
signaling in natural language
a desperation,
Flung in glowing code into the sea of grey.
Then the still, unseen black hood
is drawn over his face again.
And we watch the nothingness, suspended--
And he lights again from impossible blackness!
The orange holocost sends again his trembling sign,
I have beaten him!
I have cast off the black hood!
I live!
And then then executioner in silence again overcomes him
but for the eye, pinhead of emberous resilience,
looks at us,
and lingers,
until again silently and impossibly,
he thrashes into bright yellow canary wings
beating every way until they become only one peaceful blur
that wavers like a banner
into an upward rising drop.
Inverted drip-
of all
Ables sacrifice,
dripping upward to God.
Coelecense of creation.

Now bowed
now erect,
in constant solemn liturgy
brilliant against the sea of numb black
and noiselessness,
as he sucks the sweet smell of caramel, or beezwax
from his roots,
and gushes the fragrances like a fountain
geysered into the empty universe...
and then he is once again gone.

But his eternal ember,
eye of the bengel tiger, like a star
which exists beneath me,
or a pin prick puncture in the drape, drawn against
the midmorning brightness.

Catches my gaze
and holding it...

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

The Girl Who Hangs Over the Horizon

The girl hangs over the horizon
like an ornament made of white flesh, by elvish hands.
There is a new heaviness in her,
and the branches of the sky bend to her ripe weight,
her edges smoothing light like wrinkles from her dress.
She is growing with each moment of sunset.
The more alone she is, the more luminous.

She is shone as a deep and soaring ocean of
black water, stilled at her edges,
surrounds her, kissing her face with salt.
Her body, once hidden in the gay,
curling, lounging crescent of youth,
are now exposed as she faces the night straight on,
no longer looking away,
milky-light pouring from her full breast.

She has learned not to sink,
in the formidable distance, but to
save her light, the oil that everyone else has squandered,
and when the waters rise, to float
in the vast, empty harbor of the universe;
to light herself, and to promise, when the sun has run out
that dawn will come- look,
see it in me.

The full moon is mother
and the no-longer girl, who soars like an ornament beyond the horizon,
filling the distance between us with brilliance.

Friday, October 10, 2014


Pitt the world of Artemis
with all it's moonlight and nakedness,
nymphs bathing without leaves
or curtains of cloth drawn about them
- they were shorn off-
against yourself,
and the reality of your ugliness,
your ill fitting cloths.
See, you are not complete.

Yes, let the moan slip, sighing from your lips;
Let she, who once settled in all of us in the night
when we were youth,
pull once again away from her leash
and spring out from your eye
as if the season had changed to autumn
all at once while you had been blinking.
And the smell, ahh the smell,
perfume, where have I smelled that before?

It was when you came upon a god,
in the stream, or in the woods of your backyard--
in the garden,
and knew, not that you were naked,
but that you were clothed.

Let this moan, who you have unleashed
become a cry, and then a song, of joy and sadness together in one embrace.
This is how to praise:
so loud that it vibrates through the crystal chalice of your body
and shatters you
and leaves you naked,
staring into the face of God.

Monday, May 26, 2014

Things that Sing

Things that sing began with
hearing the wind
pouring into valleys
and whistling notes in between leaves
and rocks;
hearing the Voice that existed before
all hearers, who all, once awakened
from dust and water, yawning into the strangeness of life,
heard, and with terror,
knew that they were being spoken too.

That voice- the birds says- the one
which I feel in my breast, trembling in my feathers
when the dark cloud brings his shouts;
the one that mourns,
that lifts me up into the clear and sweet sky
towards itself,
knows me.

Child, this is why you become sad when you hear
the dove wooing,
or the girl who lets down her voice like her hair,
who sends it
to quiver down your back and through your spirit.
You are like the bird, who hears the wind, and knows that
It is calling him;
calling him to fly up beyond himself,
to unsheathe the voice of the stars
and to sing back.

Friday, April 11, 2014

Swallow Song

With songs simple as bird notes
punctuating dawn
outside my window
so that I know winter has ended,

She plays her words to me
without even knowing that they are song.
She makes no intention to strike deeply,
to inflict the massive yawning dream of Venus
into my ears.

There are no tricks here
but the ones which were already there--
those which I forget upon
hearing that plain song of she who perched
with swallow eyes beside me
and said, as if to dispel all spells,
"good morning."

Monday, April 7, 2014

The End

Yesterday I found myself going to confession in St. Francis' new chapel, sitting at the end of a line of perhaps twenty. For this reason and not because of any discipline or piety on my part, I was committed to a long time of meditation. It was evening, and the sky outside was cloudy, perforated by light that trickled softly through the stained glass jewels at the top of the chapel's dome. I put in headphones and listened to the ambient soundscapes of Hammock and Balmoreah, kept low enough for me to hear the echos of people shifting in the pews beside me, and the gurgles of restless children experimenting with their sounds and listening to the experiments bouncing back to them.
As I dug in and prepared for the long wait, I read from Balthazar's Heart of the World- catching onto lines about experiencing the unseen like the down of a bird, brushing against me at night; about the sharp call of God, aimed at my heart like a spear, bouncing from my bulwarks; about sin and monotony enveloping me in a layer after layer of hardening fibers, becoming like a carapace that shuts out the Divine. I grasped onto these particular sayings because the call of God is something that seems belong to a life that I left behind. But it bursts out at times, here from a candle, there from a painting, a word, a tree, a book, a look in a girls eyes- these revoke memories of that tender yearning which my being has all but forgotten. I am afraid that I am going to be wrapped by business until this call disappears from me completely.
Partly, I think, because I wanted to forget.
So I spoke to God. I said, I don't know where you are in all of this, who Jesus really was- but I am seeking you as I know how... here. I peer into the tabernacle like a question.
I think that my gaze is like the sort of question that the freshly betrothed asks into the eyes of his soon to be bride... when he realizes that he does not really yet know her: who are you behind that veil?
I am no longer afraid of the answer which I know will come to me as I reach the end of my life.
There my suffering will be the darkest, and most absolutely true. But this darkness will be breached as the sun sets down from my life and is swallowed into the water of my death. All will be soaked in light red as blood... and all that is salt becomes sweet, like Repicheep's end on the edge of the world.
These are just imaginations, perhaps. Impossible hopes that peer into death and expect to have a simple breakfast of fish on the side of lake Genesareth even after life itself betrays us.
But what of this call? This yearning? What is it for?
A little girl runs into the pew ahead of me. She throws back her head, and, staring up into the domed ceiling, cries out in something that she thinks is language.
I smile and look up with her at the blue sky that edges through the skylight.
I thought, this is our second womb- we are all pilgrims, teaching each other the life that we are learning.
Perhaps the hand which grabs us like cancer, that strikes our memory like Alzheimers, that bursts our veins and tears all our loves rudely away from us, are the hands which will bear me away, cutting me from the joys of being I and from the umbilical chords that feed me now, into the hope that we knew so intimately when we saw this world with our newest eyes.
The sky is simply the water that holds us together in our second womb, bright, blue, like a question peering immensely upon me, asking, who will you be, you behind the veil.
The love was settled before the question was ever asked.