Monday, February 16, 2015

The vatican light bulb

How long until they change it?
It's dim and dull and damning. 
How long for these men
these bishops, priests and archbishops-men
to change it? 

How long will the women, the LGBTQs 
(cha cha cha!)
and the altar boys have to wait?

Thick brown syrup dripping
tradition there, change 
moves slowly; watt else is new?
But how many centuries?

I guess whenever the Holy decides it needs to See.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

in the english department, 
part 2

The scholars were all sitting in a circle
evenly spaced, like traffic cones 
around some repair work; I came in
and sat down, below them, to the side. 

I was there to defend a friend. I said, 
"I've read all his books, they made me 
- they still make me - want to get out of bed 
in the morning!" 

One of the cones, probably the department head 
of repair, looked down and to the side, 
where I was, and smiled at my enthusiasm;
I knew I wasn't getting anywhere. 
So, I said some more: 

"He was always doing his best, and even if he wasn't,
always, he was doing it anyway!" 

The head of the circle said, 
“At a certain time in his life, his work 
becomes flawed, uneven.” 

Then, the meeting was over; 
they all left but the department head. 
I gave him a dirty look. 

I said, “How’d you like to be flawed and uneven?” 

Then, I left. But I was serious. 
I could hear him messing around with his smart
phone, it was gurgling and goo-gooing as I 
went out of the room; but I was serious

Later, the mortician told the police
(I read this on the free Wi-Fi internet
at the Red Roof Inn, after the free coffee)
that the department head looked a little deconstructed
when they brought him in. The mortician 
must have been an english major, on the side. 

As for me, I'm driving fast away from the police, 
and I've got a UHaul full of those books! 

Or maybe this is all imagination. 
Either way, I got out of bed this morning,
if flawed and uneven. I don't really want 
to kill anyone. Or, me.

Thursday, February 5, 2015

DRINK the waterfront 
Riding along, someone else driving, 
I sat up and looked straight ahead 
through the windshield
instead of sideways and up, 
playing the alphabet game with the billboards 
and said, I AM a contender, even if somehow
I don’t contend. 

I got out of the backseat, out of the car
and looked it over - the car - and it was with me, 
on my side
it even threw a rod
(steiger; too depressed; inside himself).

I got up in the front seat
with the key
with the ignition
with the wheel
and then -- well, what would you do?

Right; that! Drive. Floor it. 

To hell with the pedestrian. 

No family around 
In a blizzard 
under buzzards
the horse fell
off the mountain trail;
falling down, eyes wide
not understanding why
he, who’d been barn born
in another snowy night
in warm yellow haystack candlelight.