just getting used to being cadavers

lying on the kitchen counter cold granite

kisses the back of my arms,

palms up and open like:

give us Blessing, send us peace.

just getting used to being cadavers.

the darkness that smooths onto

our bodies makes sense: swish

it heavy over my teeth until it lies

sleepy-thick on my

eye-lids, roll my head back to

stare at this dark grey ceiling (a.k.a.

the scintillating shimmering

of the ephemeral 12 a.m.).

there’s a certainty encompassing us:

death whispers dulcet at our horizontal

feet. my soul glazes over sweet

with vivacity, crunchy as new-born

carrots pulled orange from the ground.

sucking life up by the tips of my

pale, trembling fingers.

this is all I craved

in the bike-rides home these past winter nights;

wind sharping raw on

my gripped red knuckles

made me envisage long epitaphs

of us present-day saints.

thanks be to your presence,

a warm, solid, brown thing that

sings of sincerity so that make-believe

death such as ours makes me believe

harder in your naked words which

untangle like tree branches searching

desperately for open sky.

we polish our souls glossy in the moon-light,

porcelain plates that glint

of lingering expectation,

glassy, almost life-like

in pure-white shadow dreams.

immanuel

I.

the glory had left. I searched

desperate for your open hands,

broken feet trampling

dry words, empty kisses.

desolation and guilt

crumpled dark under my eye-lids;

I found no relief in

glistening baubles.

raw fingers dug deep into

discordant lies, I saw

a cacophony of frantic

red. god with us?

cold empty pushed blue

inwards, choked breathing, hit

shivers solid up my soul—

this is what December tasted of.

II.

until you breathed back

warmth, solid that winter

night with my soul tucked

careful and quiet into my mouth.

I felt you: your god becoming

flesh; your presence awakened

my hardness, softened the

drought. I beheld:

incarnate anew. it was too

much, I could not look, yet

my wondering eyes felt

your god revealed.

I wept, for redemption

lay velvet upon my neck,

gold halos creased my forehead:

“lo, I am with you always.”

whiskey promises to be drunk

on, thirst quenched as

seeking hands clutch home--

god made flesh.

[exodus]

Pour me another,

let it froth the top of my

desert-dry lips as

we march—a people

cursed to wonder, 

lost from Promised Land.

From our mouth

pours sand and fear,

our shoes fill with

desire: belonging felt

simpler in Egypt.

We shall see God

someday?

Perhaps--

when our

bones are bleached

brittle by guilt,

                            when forty years

                            restless is up,

when our children

cannot look us

in our clouded eyes.

Does shame come

soft on your open,

praying hands? 

Do the fires lick

your elbows, burn your

bent knees?

Singe my forehead on

hot desert sand,

smoking flesh in my nostrils:

small price to pay for

Promised Land.

I hear it: heart-ache

thumping deep in the hollow

ground echoes all we

lost when we set out

to find our-selves, 

our Promised Land.

And so—forgive us, Father?

Lead us not into Temptation

but to our Promised Land.

And deliver us from Evil,

but straight to Promised Land.

Hear us shout! Our voices raised in

brilliant harmony: we are yours,

yours, all yours!

(just take us to Promised Land)

song of the fish

I. 

today, I almost crushed the fish.

dumping them into a bowl,

their rocks came plunging

onto them: they wriggled in

breathless ecstasy, gills

frantic with escape and air.

today,

rocks crush heavy

on my fragile chest too—I heave

in haggard breaths, but the

pressing is real,

the sky a torn grey, the wind

cutting dangerous into soft white

flesh.

II.

visions of future

terrify me homewards,

drag black onto

trembling hands,

call for silence,

a deep and solemn lament. 

forgive me, lord, for I have sinned:

I have tasted forbidden pomegranates,
juicy with lust, purple apathy
streaking my fingers,
running hard onto naked
chest.

I have eaten sweet honey,
coating my lips with
luke-warm love--
it leaves only
heady salt thick
on my tongue.

I have been merry and drunk
with empty promises,
careless chatter,
lilting laughter.

I have eaten and drinken my fill,
I have come up empty. 

bless us, father.

III.

my soul is longing to burst away;

tight skin keeps it

gripped--

I wriggle inwards,

gasping for life,

for the freedom water brings.

baptize me anew in fresh

tap, please. no more heavy

stuff to crush small

gills, make me flop silly

dances around the

wide, dark unknown.

life in a fish-tank

is hard enough already.

and all of this, I give to you

I put my head

between my bruised knees,

hang heavy here

in deep-watered reality,

nothing more real than

the salt scent of

blood.

everything fine,

just fine

except--

your emptiness

haunts my

very fingertips.

(begging)

please look up,

see the writing

etched in scratches

on the ceiling—

it is for you, friend!

I can do no more than this:

please! know that

your soul is a

small, brave, soft thing

in a large world--

they will try to eat it;

you must not let them.

you must fight,

cry, love,

lose,

& never forget

who made

you.

there is light left in you yet,

brave thing. you have

not lost it.

please believe me: when I

kissed your cheek—

I tasted the dark black bitter

of empty,

I found you were not well.

I was not frightened.

(but if so,

only a little,

only for you)

come,

it is an uphill battle.

I will fight it with you,

not for you.

please,

read again the words

etched from my own white fingers,

tracing memories of past

onto your shadow-eaten face:

you are worth so much

more than all of this—

before the darkness drinks

you dry,

tell me you believe it!

at least a little,
at least for now.