First Thing in the Morning

I take seriously Christ's injunction:
Physician, Heal Thyself!

I lance my own boils
Scrape away warts to the bone
Slice and purify puss blisters
Treat my own fevers
Sew up my own cuts
Remove my own fish hooks.

If I can do it without passing out
I'll do it myself.
Over the years I've taken responsibility
For my injuries and wounds.
Twice I've awoken to the bright lights
Of hospitals.
Had I known I'd been in the box
Of a Fire Department Bone Bucket
I'd have jumped at the next light
And healed myself.
I've dressed and walked out
Of hospital rooms
Wanting to go home to die.

If you know me
You know I'm speaking truth.

There are some deep wounds
I've never successfully treated.
God knows I saturated them with
Alcohol
And I've medicated them to oblivion.
But the next day
Those very wounds were the first
To greet me at daybreak.
Nothing tastes worse than
Coffee dregs
Stirred with bitter memories
First thing in the morning.

Can't nobody heal that.

Where Does a Man Go to Weep?

Where does a man go
To weep?
Where does a man hide?
When his world tumbles
From orbit
And he is thrown
Into eternity
Where does he go?

When the woman he'd loved
All his life
Laughs
And he is utterly alone
Where does that man go?

When a man stares into the darkness
With no one beside him
Where does he go?

The answer will sound silly
And sophomoric
But for those who've been there
They will know the truth.
That man will shakily
Crawl into his truck                           
Remove his hat from his head
Cover his face
And there in that void
He will cry.

Memory

She is a fugitive
Hiding in plain sight
Living loudly in the day
Sleeping safely in the night.

She is a poet
Rhyming deftly her life
Her days a published letter
As edged as any knife.

She is music
Her purposes recorded in grooves
And her actions the stylus
Her lifetime gently soothes.

She is august brilliance
Remembered in lightening blaze
Her memory burning daily
Shinning brightly through the haze.

She is, to me, sacred memory
And the kindling I require
To warm my aging memory
With the comfort of her fire.

Just a Thought....

When a man tells you he is going to kill you...believe him. When a woman does not tell you she is going to kill you, suspect her anyway. (A lesson from East Texas, 1990).

The Next 50 Feet

I have been down as many alleys
As I have main drags.
But I remember alley cinder
Better than I do concrete boulevards.

I remember fires
Kindled in 50 gallon drums
And needles in mud puddles.
I remember burned out garages
And wary eyes half-hidden
behind kitchen blinds
Little white baby dolls
With shorn yellow hair
Sightless eye sockets.
I remember the lust
For danger inherent
In the next 50 feet
And the bitter burn
Deep in my throat.

The CTA buses belch diesel
On Stoney Island
But in the alleys
The air stings
Of cigarettes
Cheap whiskey
And sex.

I remember the sharp crunch
Of cinder
Beneath my boot
The skittering of rats
And the whimper escaping
Torn screens
From the third floor walk-up.

From 79th Street
The Chicago Fire Department
Bone Bucket screams
Like a bereft mother
But here in the cinder alley
Is the metallic click
Of the slide
On a 9 with an extended clip.

I know these alleys
And they remember me
Because you never forget
The sights
The smells
The sounds
Of those preparing
To die.

Come, Day, Come!

Come, Day, Come!

The morning of The Day
Is coming
When these unsteady legs
Will strengthen
And I will stand.

All those wisdoms I've practiced
Will cleave
To the roof of my mouth
And the only sound
I will utter
Will be a stunned gasp.

These hands will stretch
To embrace you
But will clutch my sternum
From fear they will but wither
When offered the Divine.

This grey matter
That has parenthesized
Life and death
So offhandedly
Will fail for fear
It has missed
The fragrance
Of forever.

Nevertheless...
Come, Day, Come!

Tear away the gauze
Shred the body and bones
Of this tremulous present
That I might finally stand
On good ground
In the bright, new
Golden light
Of morning.

Long Night Moon

A frigid Long Night Moon

Watches me shivering

Within a horse blanket

Wishing for a slosh of whiskey

Or a cup of bitter coffee

Dying slowly

In this cold camp.

My pony stamps on hard soil

In patchy snow

Nothin’ to eat

And the stream’s frozen

His breath suspends

In the full moon night

In this cold camp.

In this cold camp

I force myself awake

Knowing if I sleep

Death waits patiently

And I'll be found

By wolves and winter's moon.

My bones will bleach here.

In this cold camp

I watch December's disk

Climb pathless skies

Taking no notice of me

Eyes closing

Seeking hopelessly to embrace the inner flame

In this cold camp.

A Sweet Ache

Lyrics and rhythms
Bob and weave
With the dexterity
Of a fighter
Landing blows
With each line
And note.
 
They exact
A certain kind of pain
Emitting from
My tender core
Radiating down every
Neural pathway
And registering
A sweet ache
Within my
Organs and bowels.
They bleed from my heart
And lungs.

They render me
Helpless breathless and weak
Unable to fight back
To resist 

The pain of the past

Nor see
The frustration of the future.

Trust me

Young man…

Before you make

The same mistake.

Trust me

Young lady…

Some songs must not
Be played twice.

The Blessed Place

They walked into

The church of stone

In hats and gloves

And heels.

Not far into

The holy place

They crossed themselves

And kneeled.

An organ pled

In solemn tone

To quiet themselves

In prayer.

A hush suspended

Above the crowd

Holiness filled

The air.

I’ve sat with those

In that quiet
Breathless place

I’ve felt that silent presence.

I’ve tasted to see

The Lord was good

I’ve known His mysterious

Essence.

But we have lost

Ourselves somewhere

Along the way.

His touch has left the people.

It was never about

The gold and gilt

It was never about

The steeple.

Our music is blaring

While we sit laughing

Sipping our Starbucks  

And clapping our hands.

We demand the dazzle

Of the ‘Worship Show’

As we move in the rhythm

Of our bands.

There is a throne somewhere

Beyond what we

Can guess

Further than we see.

In majesty the Lord God

Rules

In silence He awaits

Our bended a knee.

Music fills

The blessed Place

And joy surrounds

His throne.

And nothing matters

But true worship there

When we make the Lord

Our own.

Requiem for a Summer Afternoon

Requiem for a Summer Afternoon

I see you...

Early afternoon sun

Spins your hair

Brilliant gold.

Your eyes glint

With the diamond light

Flashing off the lake.

My hand reaches

The shoreline

Along your forehead.

The pads of my fingers play
Through your waves of
Auburn hair

Downward

Across your eyelids

Bridge of your nose

Your sweet lips

I have known so well

The swell of your chin

Down your smooth neck

And off your open collar

My touch swirling

Like tidal pools.

I see you

With more than eyes.

You stand before me

Offering this moment

As searing memory.

I take you in my arms

Press you into

My body

And

I see you.