All the dreams of caterpillars
Seem impractical.
Foolish hairy creeps.
Inconsiderate visionaries
Painting airy portraits
For themselves, invisible
To the hive. "Why so shy?
Look to the flowers, grumpy!
Have some nector, honey!
Show some self-respect,
Insect!" Shamed to see
All the winged productivity,
As if the burden of beauty
Were too great, the beast
Takes its own bait
And slinks away to think awhile
about its purpose, and to die.

Now, blind to what's transpired,
And suspicious of a sudden quiet,
It dries its wings in the sun,
And gazes out upon the flowers,
Which bow in its direction.
The butterfly hears a far
Vibration, and wonders
Why, and where the bees did fly.

On every worm, that plows the waste
Of better beasts, the life of trees
Depend. In every creepy caterpillar,
Dreams of beauty brew
Invisible, but not unknowable,
Nor untrue.

Labels: poetry

Many thanks in a pretty blue box,
And a cellophane promise
of near eternal shelf-life.
Body of Christ, O.T.C.
(just add Welches - sweet
Purple blood in a bottle). Bland
Doctors of the modern church
Prescribe a Saltine pill
The size of a TicTac -
Without the salt,
Without the sweet -
Once-a-week to guarantee
Community, chased with that blood
That causes cavities.

And here come the Whole Food
Faithful, organo-hippie
Holistics, who Feel For You.
9-Grain Jesus, the Whole
Body of Christ and a glass of
Cabernet. Tipsy, taste and see
That the Lord is ... ooh,
Is that a little seed in there?
Little kingdoms inside
My half-pound loaf.
I could plant this bread
And start a garden,
Or write a folk song
Expounding on the meaning.
Or is it just the wine talking?

Is there need for the bread to tell
A new story, or the wine to sing
A new song? Isn't the story
That was the seed, the song
That made the kingdom
Sing, aren't they big enough
To be contained
In one Eucharistic Chicklet
and some grape juice?

Labels: poetry

Gold fades to black
as if the baker slept and burnt the bread
and then, if that weren't bad enough,
the fire went dead.

and while the dark and cold
of loneliness crests
and froths tsunami-like
above his village,
He sits down to eat with friends,
Nero-like in disquieting
self-conscious annihilation.

He tears at bread. "I'm torn
between you
and me."
He rips at the loaf that's warm and hollow
enough for a tap
to reveal it was finished.
The empty in-between defines
the shape of things.
The rising golden warmth says
you're home at any hearth.

Then he drains the skin, the heart
about spent, emptied, divided
and walked between.
He says his thanks, and pours a drink,
reminding the cup of it's purpose:
to be full and always
to be emptied--the perfect
pregnant surface
offered to the thing that breaks it.

"I'm giving me to taking you.
Your hungry bowl, my angry cup;
your cup of wine, my empty bowl.
My wine delayed
until my home
is warmed again".
This bowl of time stopped
at the rim
and quivering;
its surface holding history back--
not like glass, which keeps us from
the things we're looking at,
but like wine, which is like blood,
which they say is thicker than water,
which could tell you a thing or two
about tension.

waiting,
for a tilt of the planet
towards tomorrow.
Remembering,
to hold the wave aloft.
Waiting
for the bread to rise,
and the cup to fill and
hoping, remembering ...
that home is where the hearth is,
and if that weren't good enough,
the fire still has life in it.
and the meal calls us back to the table.

Labels: poetry

Flashlights under the covers,
playing like cavers, diving
deep into giddy infancy.
Though a proud dream-stag
might poke you out of slumber,
drift, spelunker, underground lover--
begged blessings hover
like a funky patchwork raft
you're riding under. The light
and lethe comforter is the night--
the world turns in, turns to forgetting,
creeping easter, "Flashlights on!"
No hope in rising! Who craves and hunkers
down to wait? ... World turns,
God pulls the covers up.
You fight to not forget, while
revelers stall, stealing light
from above: stay sharp, heads up.
Each work of day rolls over,
above and of the surface,
and yet the earth careers to
other rhythms, finally cloaked
and orthodox ... asleep, unseen
where youth are left to rise,
and plunge towards the center,
under the covers, where motion
is never felt.

Labels: poetry

Balking, buck naked, and a bit
Too high above the ground, I
Bend into myself and
Bury me against transparency--
Barely believing I could be
A big man or even a
Bold man. ... But

Before I break, the brothers
Breach the boundaries to
Bold me, beginner
That I am; and then I
Bend myself straight, and go
Back to the bush to be
Barefoot burned again

Labels: poetry

Labels: poetry