entry

have recently gotten into reading your words
like they were letters, you write to fill me in
on your day, how you are, the edges of space
between we find comfort in, keeping distance
measured, exact, the continents in their place,
checking for small earthquakes, keeping still
as solid rock, your words, when beneath they
are liquid fire, relentless, roiling. and printing
them, in larger font for easy reading this time,
so i can carefully fold them up and keep them
in a box, maybe tuck in a shirt pocket for luck,
a charm, a paper amulet against the elements:
too much rain or sun seeping into my chest
can easily stunt the sapling heart, you know
how crazy the weather can be, this country. or
have you forgotten, when temperatures drop
to nothing, you pile on your jackets against
such sentiment, the snow, and work without
dreaming of warmer days and streets, sudden
rain, me, or anything to keep the cold from
burrowing into the marrows of your bones,
the words you bleed and update everything
you left with. faithfully, i hold them closer
and feel every letter, punctuation and space
collapse from weight and the rocking beats
and beneath the debris, the liquid core of
things unfold and flow through the cracked
skin, something gradually....................... wilt.
as you tiredly tap away at the keys, i hear
you play a secret song. each breaking beat
for me, alone when really the whole world
tunes in, friends and sad strangers and the
wife back home storing away the groceries
and logging in, longingly, to this electronic
......humming.

The Living Word

We are walking weird streets this
Wednesday, with sporadic shuffling
feet. We are lurching forward one minute
and holding back the next in a beat
characteristic of those who have tripped
terribly, scraped knees and want to dream,
secretly, again. I've never been to Taft
I tell you and you start pointing at things,
cardboard houses and kids, their jutted ribs,
college kids rushing to pristine buildings,
a pantomime guide letting your fingers speak,
ramble on until you mutter That's why. All I
understand is you make the third world
pretty. The gutter muck is sparkling, the dark
sea waving. We are toeing the edge as Jesus
walks on water trailed by lovers holding
hands. Our feet are dry and cracking
but we still smell the brine, however
faint, in our breaths, sometimes, how we
choke. We are catching our breaths,
sitting on some sidewalk. You are telling
me how you two broke up. I am remembering
how quiet it felt on the train on the way
here, only the insistent, rusty clanking
heart. You are asking if I believe in God.
On weekends, we teach kids the living
word and help build houses, you are saying,
if you want you can join us. It would be fun.
C'mon...I am remembering Neitzsche.
God is dead and I was there at the funeral,
looking up from the pulpit and madly
laughing until teachers dragged me away.
I was eleven. He would die on me again
and again: through Marx, the masses, friends,
workplaces, my ex, like two days from now,
on Good Friday. I believe there is no
greater pain, I am telling you. Yeah, those
children not knowing faith, you are shaking
your head, bead after bead of your sweat
flying and landing on my face, thighs and I
feel blessed, you are rising from the pavement,
face set against the debris of the fallen
city and I know He has risen, once again.
We are walking back to the station. Street
vendors are shouting wildly, bracing
themselves for when everyone flees
for beaches, the calm, hungry weekend.
Somewhere, a boy is bowing his head
to a customer. You are looking around
as if straining to hear a sudden secret
prayer.