A slight confession of sins

lower-case he and me

Late Thursday breakfast, at last I confessed myself 
to a poorly-dressed but well-bearded priest. 
This priest (I did not catch his name, so I will call him  
Father, or perhaps lower-case he), 
was a sleepy-eyed fool behind his drugstore specs, 
and he did not recall the extent of my sins even after 
I recited them from my torn sheet of foolscap. 

Distracted, he told me his dreams of 
a cemetery of trees,
of branches falling and ravens calling, 
and stale mausoleums filled 
with herbs and seeds.

There was no place for my words 
to brace against his filthy cassock. 
He seemed to be an aching arch of rumored bones 
and unpleasant knees,
and I was concerned for his soul — 
and sagging flesh and ash-stained hands and shallow chest — 
as much as I was for my own design of infinity 
and the fragility of my possible divinity. 

“The God you may know,” he said,
“he is one slow hijo de puta 
painting this canvas.” 
He paused for effect, which was odd and yet
he held 
his breath and, saith he:
“This place is his divine piece, you see, 
and we are what he has painted into the corners. 
The poets — I see you are one, from your long list 
of synonyms to best describe your best sins– 
mostly suffer from agraphia when regarding the faith 
of their pens. 
But I forgive you, I guess, if that makes you less 
inclined to bother me with your mistakes again.” 

“These are not mere mistakes,” I cryeth, 
“I have broken the Commandments, some of them 
several times, and one of them in a brothel.
Perhaps three of them in the same brothel, 
but at different times. 
Can I please be forgiven? 
What words can I say, what deeds need be committed 
to memory, compounded by shame? 
Give me the name of one who can forgive me,
if not you.”

Father and lower-case he, both being the same, 
paused again. 
“Son, I have committed these same misdeeds,” 
he said, 
“which is why I myself became a priest. 
My poor father. And my grievous mother! 
Ashamed! 
But I could not help myself. 
My sins were so wondrous,
and that was the curse given us,
given us all. 
To feel good is so shameful, is it not? 
And more so when you’re caught,
and even when you ought to know better! 
Say twenty-and-three Hail Mary’s and 
get thy gins behind thee, 
and I will join you, boy, bring your coins with ye, boy! 
Even now, in this comedy of errors, 
before the devil’s veiled terrors, 
I will join you in the brothel, 
(and I know that sounds so awful), 
but we will chant the prayers of the Lord, 
over Scotch whiskey and flaming swords. 
I am yet uncertain that it is not a sin, 
but pour that gin, boy, and then pour it again.”

With that, he removed his specs 
and wiped the lenses with his wet sleeve. 
“It has been so long since I last confessed 
my own misdeeds,” he said. 
“They are sins, of course, a horse
by any other name is still a good wager. 
I hear you belabor the forgiveness you seek, 
but for cab fare and a peek
at that place downtown, 
I will anoint your crown with my useless mercy. 
Agreed?”

“Indeed,” I said, learning nothing by and large.

“We borrow today to pay for tomorrow. 
If you agree to go onward, by tomorrow 
go forward, and sin no more.”

“Say no more,” saith I, 
and my friend Father and lower-case he
both being the same, 
stepped outside, beyond our prison’d door. 
There was no place for my words 
to brace against my filthy cassock. 
“Say no more,” saith I again 
to no one in particular, 
dreaming perpendicular, 
and then began to turn away.

Dimitri and me

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Dimitri and me
we lived by the sea

we saw a horizon
hard and infinite 
a great ruthless sea
conversationally intimate
a sea so calm yet god so deliberate
we saw and we drank our darkest wines
and we watched the deepest ships unwind
ahead of us
far beyond us far between us

for a life beyond the greatest hope of us,
for a life we waited and we wished for both of us,
we promised it would be us one day
if courage one day
would be our blessing some day
but Dimitri was killed
in March of 1948
and so

I live in this place
of hush
where moon hides the darkest heart of 
me

of us

of foaming arrangements of the remainder you see
the brightest of lights of life upon sea
and my days and nights of Dimitri and me

that wash away
our ballast
into the sea
of me and Dimitri and we
stay behind and live inside 
a soft and infinite sea of us.

Dimitri and me
we live by the sea
and we see a horizon
wide and so infinite
beyond us a sea

of only Dimitri and me.

photo courtesy of Pixaby

 

soma

stars-and-clouds-at-nighttime-1229042

(Adult themes and language)

The East Coast light was delivered to them each morning on the cheap. It broke apart between the hand hewn beams Joanne loved so much, and then landed on her old West Coast quilt, miraculously complete. Dawn was the first trick of the day, she said: a ragged little something to make you believe you were waking up someplace else, somewhere more rugged, like Oregon or backwoods Appalachia. Goddamn Connecticut, she said. It fooled even smart people into thinking they belonged outside their natural state. 

Daniel’s father was not an architect, but he knew how to read a blueprint, how to lay hands upon brick and wood. This place was built as a wedding gift, and the old man died two days before they moved in. It was a heart attack at a traffic stop. Hardly the combative adieu most men hoped for, but it worked as decent after-dinner conversation.

On the first night in their marriage bed, Joanne told Daniel, “I’m the most tragic piece of ass you’re ever gonna find, Danny Boy.” 

He smiled and nodded. “Likewise, Jo. I hope.” 

They were a reasonably contented 20th century couple, cemented in stubbornness and tradition, until Gloria arrived. They did not invite her, of course, but they knew she would not change her schedule for them. And so they waited on her.

September 27, 1985 – 4:42 a.m.

Daniel at the helm of the bathroom mirror, inside it, stained inside it, exhaling Listerine, objecting to the flat space between the layers of his himness. Who is staring at whom, you might say, that certain cliché: am I real, the real deal, and who is this pretender before my throne? Am I firmly in place, consigned only as a load-bearer, as the pillar holding up all this shit and disgrace until it topples? Awful, yes, to consider there are these light fixtures and shiny polished faucets to maintain, oh, and the codified hand towels and ornamental soaps, the fuck is that about, eighteen dollar dollops of molded soap imprinted with cherubs, and I’m not even allowed to wash my hands with them? and the vodka still rages and it smells a little like mouthwash and a lot like backwash vomit. Fifty-two years old and still acting like a kid sneak-drinking Mateus, hiding the vino under the passenger-side seat of the old man’s wagon, except now it isn’t always vino, and it definitely isn’t rolling around in the back of the Olds. Joanne would have a cow. Is that the right expression, having a cow? No, she would have a fully-formed, prime Grade-A, fucking clot of beef if she knew I was still drinking five-dollar potato vodka. What do you say, Opposite-Me? I say go back to bed, asshole, it’s going to be the shittiest of shit days and she’s going to need you. Gloria’s on her way.

“You okay in there, hon?” moans Jo, her voice a blur, a smoker’s burr, barely aware under the quilt, barely awake but cognizant of his absence.

“I’m good, baby. Go back to sleep.”

“‘kay.”

“Rough day ahead,” he says, but it’s more to himself, because she already knows that, and why doesn’t he just do the right thing and fucking die already?

September 27, 1985 – 7:18 a.m.

Joanne at the edge of the bedroom mirror, beside it, hiding from her nakedness. She’d put on too many pounds since the Fourth. Maybe since before that, since last Christmas. Or maybe since forever. Fuck. Weight and shame, that’s all this was. All. This. Is. Daniel never said a word, not a tot of encouragement, not a nod of acknowledgement that she was suffering. What do you call this? The Middle-aged Blues? Might as well romanticize it, and why not? Growing old before you could really gather up all the facts of how you’ve lived so far? No one wrote songs about this kind of loneliness, did they? As your husband merrily lives a life outside of you. People have a way of forgetting the ways the other half fades. The primal organism of love, not just the smooth camera-ready surfaces, all the playful erections and generous curves and the wet boundaries of touch. They forget about the chambered heart, the damaged blood, the aching ligaments and the splintered bones. They forget about the ovarian cysts and the broken skin and ugly scars that still look like billboards in the dark. They only see the before and after in the photo album, and they nod and reminisce about the rocket-powered orgasms of newlywed bliss that always always always obscures the disappointments and stained regrets. We are childless, honey, because of me. We both know it and have never spoken it, not aloud, it’s not allowed, even when the other is asleep. And I weep. You know it, Danny, I weep. And you turn over in your sleep, and you turn the bottle over to your lips, and you pretend that we’re both too old for this nonsense, it doesn’t matter. But it matters. It has shaded us. And now we really can’t stand to look at each other, can we? But we do. For the sake of ourselves, we do. Because every morning, we awaken to the terror of our calamity. And calamity is what we know but haven’t quite expressed yet.

Will you be sober for the disaster of today? Because I really doubt you will be, and I really don’t need you to be. Because I know we’re going somewhere together, and I really hope we get there soon.

Daniel, yelling from the kitchen, “Are you ready for this, Jo? She might still miss us.”

His words don’t sound too blurred.

“Hurricanes never miss,” she says. “Who can ever be ready for something like this?” Did that sound like a chant, did it have a sing-song singularity to it, the proper note of resignation? She hoped so.

“I hope my dad built this place strong enough,” he says. “I think we might have a chance if Gloria turns a degree or two to the north.”

“Goddamn Connecticut,” says Jo. “Goddamn Gloria.” And, under her breath. “Goddamn us.”

Photo by Arnie Chou from Pexels

My words

There are some days when I am so tired of the words. My words. Their  looseness, their tightness, their clutter, their chatter, their aloofness and evasiveness, their show-and-tellness, their hip-hoppiness. They’re  too unrefined, too shiny, too abstract, and they float like blots of snow in a Rankin/Bass Christmas cartoon. I want them to be sweeping, I want them to be respectful, I want them to weep and soar, I want them to be dramatic piano notes, each. one. a. slow. plink / plunk. and. then. echo
down
a
dark
stone
corridor
and
scald
all 
the
walls
with
their
beauty.
AND THEN 
I WANT THEM TO

BURSTOPENSOLOUD

like BUBBLE wrap, and startle children and small animals, and then I will put them in the corner because they know what they’ve done AND they won’t stop giggling. I want to dress them in jeans and a paint-splattered T-shirts, in expensive tuxedos, in riverboat finery, and I want to retire the old ones, fuss over the new ones, and dig a big hole in the backyard and discover all the dinosaury ones. I want to invent brand new words that open up brand new ideas and I want them to line up for a proper photograph wearing their bestest-best smiles and show everyone how friendly they can be. But mostly I want them to let me rest. I am so tired and they always want to play with me. I want to save them in a big glass bowl and chew on them one at a time when my chewing teeth are ready and I want to swim with them on fresh white paper or on creamy parchment and tickle them with ink when the lights are just bright enough to glow upon each one of them and then. walk away. and just let them. SLEEP. for just for a few minutes each day.

But then, what would I do, what could I do with no words to renew or paragraphs to imbue, what would I do? What could I do? And what, I shudder, would they do, I wonder, suddenly broken into pieces asunder? I wonder and I wake them up as fast as I can just in case they want to stop playing, or forget what they’re saying. This is no time to rest, I guess, no time at all.

There are some days when I can’t keep up with the words, can’t catch them at all. My words, plunk / plink, and that’s what I think.

Aeschylus, mourning his brother

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Brother, are we known yet
by our scars?
or by the small voices we have raised to hearten
others to taste these small morsel’d words?

yes, we have been forged by the same gods
who choose us, and now we are
purged of our tender meekness,
we are surely due our conceits
leading so purely from Prometheus’ dim breath

why should we, I ask,
still fear these lesser gods who cheer us 
our each broken bitter step,
they
mock us
with their effete threats,
deny us dance and music and verse,
and of the fruit that was never meant for us

for all their piety,
they drink, perhaps, or tempt us with 
their envenomed chalice,
and sing with us
and fight with us;
are we to become their tarnished adornments
as they witness our foulest desires? 

we swallow each of our solitary breaths
and we, breathless, exclaim a certain cowardice
t’wards death.
No, I plead, not that least deed,
No, my brother, you are not that man

brother, with each considered step taken
I beg you, please awaken
now
as I stretch my limbs upon this planked stage,
to bleed, to serve our noble philosophies –
these badly displayed indignities
of heroes, of men, as common as we,
to remind them that
we are too mortal, and such tragedy befalls us by
failing
against
our common foes:
ourselves, our gods, our fate to witness  
our weary’d children watch us fail,
our swords not doused with our antagonists’ blood,
to beg great Victory
to kiss us quickly, each of us,
even in defeat as
we will timely lose to death’s fevered rages

but, brother, who will call another actor
to calm these words
to step between the worlds and
to petition the rages of the chorus?

is this us, brother,
can this be us?
What do they say of us
that we have not heard?
Our tragedy will be told
tenfold as I grow older and you do not,
the things that they say of us
that we have not already heard of us

we are celebrated in the Ancient City now,
more well-spoken than before,
the costumed ghosts speak to me deliberately they
speak to me eloquently they
speak to me and they

all wear your voice.

oh brother, Euripides has not forgotten us.
He implores me to tell more tales
but I fear there are no more.
I have left Marathon behind me
and the Furies have brought me to this place.
May murder and devastation
Never come to tear this city, I said with all my truth.
Ah, but a tired man can be forgiven in time
for his ignorance and his youth.
We both know the Eleusinians were wrong,
we have that to enjoy between us.

oh my good brother,
Gela has called my name.

brother, are we known yet
by our scars?
I have not heard from you lately
and I know we have each traveled far.

, published on 08 March 2015 under the following license: CC BY-NC-SA

Old warhorses

He and I, we simply align ourselves
at opposite ends of a path.

We disguise ourselves as amiable strangers
(though I would know him better if I asked).

The pain of his gist was his least obvious gift,
and a profoundness shortly occurred to me.

Pulling his legs from the clay field drifts,
with sensitive voice, he shortly demurred to me:

“In my sorrowed mind, I wander blithely
around my own mangled tale,
writhing between eloquence and ignorance
— to what avail?

“I wash all my scars until the old blood runs fresh.
and the longitude and latitude shudders my flesh.
I tinker with the dams that hold back my prose,
shocking my ears from so many sharp blows.

“And you, sir, you stand there, unequivocally calm,
my heart blisters over, and you hear it as balm.
My travails and hardships leave your disposition unchanged:
surely he exaggerates, or in the least is deranged!

“I assure you, good sir, my story is as plain as I say,
that I tell it so simply, I can say without shame.
Though we each cross these meadows in slow studied gaits,
I appreciate your pass on my way to my hay.”

I confess, my transgression was not meant as aggression,
and I mumbled my apology through quivering lips.
Alas, no begrudges as we partook our bucket lunches,
we reared to dislodge each rider from our hips.

Your father’s Delta 88

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We follow the fragrance of the river
in your father’s 
Delta 88.
With the windows rolled down 
we drift on an old stone road 
and watch the
eddies pull quilt-shaped flowers 
along their creases, 
folding them, unfolding them, 
pressing their petals into wine.

You said you saw thrushes rise
from the pecan trees, 
their voices reciting
proverbs 

if we could know them, you said, 
if we could believe them, you said,
we would be home.

You drove us to a place
where you hoped we would be blessed
where we could be remembered
for more than your father’s 
Delta 88
but we are
as forgettable as anyone, you said,
simple pencil drawings
pushed along the paper
then erased in increments
and folded into boxes.

Photo by George Sultan from Pexels