Novels, Stories, and Poems
Coming into phase through the rain,
always celebrating, singing
of the six-dollar rescue
Highlighting
God’s plan all along
Quita, despite herself, an integral part
I’m so glad I waited patiently,
smiling,
for the man of many diapers
to get everything he wanted
I’m so glad I listened and
brought those two quarters with me
I dwell in a hallway of beautiful things
The doorways behind me are folded in rings
The paper remembers the mind as it brings
forth a garden garage where the memory sings
Alight with the dawning of day, you declare
Combusting the stench of the dust of despair
No interest you charge on the trust you repaired
Your wages are more than fair
These gauntleted hands, thy sinister,
Dex
Dislodge from the garden a bundle of necks
Unharvested seasons, un-stiffened, un-flexed
And chewed up by the insects
“A shame,” you intone with the vertebrae canted,
“Intention, alone, is slightly enchanted.”
“What I meant to be bent, I have already granted.”
I glance from the soil, now furrowed and planted
“Again?” you inquire, with pressings of grace
A trace of a smile on your wizardly face
You close up the window of wandering space
And water and beckon I flourish, apace
I spin the day’s design
into
the forms that fit within my
mind unbent
Exceptions are the claims that call
my rules unbound
my affect, ignorant
Control is hard to find
when
all you’ve got within your mind
is money spent
Ten minutes in the
tithe
a pale surrender flag, alive
and innocent
Conducting the business of distance
in dreaming, where rhythms are listless,
connecting old age to its systems
Kept waiting for seasons of showers,
for progress, delivered in hours,
to follow the transfer of powers
We millions recline by the numbers,
malt whiskey in mind, in our tumblers,
to watch as our prospects grow humbler
In haste, begin self-recollecting
defeats and their dates, no selecting,
objectives and fates resurrecting,
declining correction, nor choosing—
election is codename for losing—
but simply detecting the bruising
I
In this antique party room
We are cursed
Melo-tones
Purples
Accidental greens escape
This black memory hurts
My eyes are burnt
This fuzzy stuff is lighting up
Are there bodies in this dark?
Who is watching us
corrupt this junk?
Where is this
Slaughterhouse?
II
The sabbath day is strong
We war again by wading sidelong
in the bleached blood, covered
by an ancient song, written on acacia wood,
adapted for a modern mood
The words are written within reach:
Bow
Pray
Teach
But in the mirror by the door:
More
More
More
She wrote a song today, you know
She wrote a song, she did
She sang a verse of nothing worse
Than finding what was hid
At first she made the music go
And then she made the words
And when in doubt, she took it out
She threw it to the birds
Her chorus was so promising
Her chorus was a list:
“I am a force to reckon with;
“I have a gospel fist”
She sang and sang and sang-a-lang
She sang in different keys
She sang until her voice was hoarse
She sang until dis-ease
She played and played throughout the day
She played until it hurt
She played it to the endless sea
She played it to the dirt
She wrote a song today, you know
She wrote a song, for me
She sang about the hangman’s doubt
She sang about “to be”
King Madabus,
that subatomic mess
That doubly
mechanistic misanthrope
That salivary gland
without a chest*
That vagrant with his
eye behind a scope
Who steals a lock of hair
without a yes
Who fishes with his
crown upon a rope
Who bargains for his
kingdom on a guess
That humble little worm in search of hope
——————————————–
*C.S. Lewis, Abolition of Man
Inputs + outputs
That’s what’s expected
A turn of degrees
And a force that’s directed
But love’s not a system,
a circuit, equation
Our God is designer
and doctor and agent
Our God is a father
Our God is a chief
He bankrupts the liar
and boycotts the thief
He brandishes iron
in place of his flesh
His shield made of comfort
His enmity, fresh
His gong is a whistle
It echoes its tune
To bypass the thistle
and rumble the moon
His arrows are stickpins
His bow is his gaze
How long the trajectory
Falling for days
His mountains, abyssal
His fountains of sand
The light from his breath
can’t be felt by the hand
His hearing, forever
His mouth, at a glance
Can detect even silence,
Direct and entrance
Were the truth to be raided
We’d doubt at its touch
The clues we debated
Were clouded too much
As he moves, we are aided
His action, our crutch
We’re commiserated
with laughter and such
I got in bed last night
Became convinced I heard his voice
Encourage me to fly
I went to sleep last night
After having flapped my arms
Humiliated
Fantastic
I woke this morning in a
Dream of mountains
I listened and he spoke again,
But from the valley
He left me starving
Delicious
Thinking I had missed the point
I took off to the beach
Hoping to get wet
No, hoping to swim —
No, hoping to become a fish, he said
And left me there
Happy
Patient
He has you in his sights
Or is it you, perchance?
You’ve done this dance
and claimed your rights
Before and seventy
times seven score
Until things came unravelled
Blue screen
And you were rebooted
Now for another round
You touch your face too much
And drink and eat
whiskey, beer, TV, and sleep
Sound the alarm
Self pity yes, but not defeat
It’s only Monday, friend
And you have locked horns
But have you ever seen it go your way?
Push, but it never topples
Grunt, but it never budges
Sigh
It seldom relents
You should recant and repent
They said
They were right about a few things
When I was locked inside my room
They taught me better than to push against
a door with hinges facing me
The Replanted Writer 