Homunculus

This rib cage

pushing outward with the inhalation.

There is this vista within.

 

In my beating heart.

In that fist-sized pound of muscle.

There is a wide open field.

 

There is a wide open field!

See that figure, there.  Not in the center.

The grasses all dance at his knee caps.

 

The clouds roll by slowly so far above him.

In this vista within me.

Where my rib cage opens wide and closes narrow, like a bellows.

 

Zoom in on the man in the field within me.

Close in on the center of his chest.

Pass through the fabric of his shirt.

 

Slide within his chest.

He breathes too.

Find that vista within him.

 

There is a field

There, too.

I stand in that place.

Torrent

This torrent comes crashing down,

A wild thing from up so high.

Niagra would look with awe at this fall.

 

Here, below.

Mostly we gather on the shore.

And the holy men in their hip waders bring the little cups.

They grimace as they fill them and bring them back to us.

The spray and the run off have soaked them.

They walk slowly.  Slowly to us.  

Apostles and apprentices towel them off solemnly.

There are so many of us here now.

We wait.  And the water is so much of everything.

But the cup is emptied so soon.

 

I do not listen to them as I step into the water.

I discard my clothes and I do not care that they are watching.
I stand beneath the waterfall with my arms stretched out wide.

They make a wide space for me,

As they continue their conveyance to their followers,

Back and forth, back and forth.

Too late

Which all leads me to that single one unutterable question:

Why was it, again,

that we waited until it was

almost

?

too

late.

 

Her befuddlings are  a result of the chemo.

and yet they manifest something

from the very deepest places in the rest of us.

 

Nobody should have to explain to somebody with out hair

again

that they are dying.

 

But we

we can not do anything about that.

And so we will do some things

about the things we can.

I

only

wish

that

they

mattered.

Lost In Translation Version 2: Monoglot Remix

On that Summer day,
with scabby knees, shirtless and tanned brown.
I pitched the wiffle ball.
Close as I was,
close enough that my not yet ten coordination could find the strike zone,

It bulleted back at me,
wiffling, Jabberwocky-like
through the suburban street
too fast. It dropped me. Like a rock.

Translated into French and back again:
In summer day
with scabby knees, brown and tanned naked torso.
I launched the wiffle ball.
Close as I was,
close enough that my coordination was not yet ten find the strike zone,

He chips to me,
wiffling, Jabberwocky-like
   through the suburban street
too fast. He dropped me. As a rock.

My words:
Some years later.
The camp counselor instigated a game
of telephone.

I think she wanted us to learn about the power of words.
The malicious destruction of gossip.
The way that words come with a radioactivity, a half-life.
They are dying, like us, the moment that they are born.

Transated into French, back to English, then to Latin and back into English again:
After a few years.
Camp counselor incited a game
Phone.

I think we must learn it.
Malicious rumors destruction.
Radioactivity pitches when liberated middle of life.
Die, so that we, in the time they were born.

My words:
Going on grown, now.
It takes me a while.
To get past the idea that the professor
Has the most enormous eyebrows that I have ever seen.

When I get past thinking about Edward Scissorhands.
Weed whackers.
I hear his words.
At least, I think I do.

Socrates, he wasn’t talking about virtues.
Like eating all of your vegetables.
It would have been better.
He says.
If we had translated that word as excellence.

Translated into French, back into English, into Latin, back into English, and then into Greek and back again:
Now grown up and done.
I need some time.
La, a doctor has a reason
A great eyebrows 1’ve ever.

For when you think of the expenses of the one’ve Edward Scissorhands.
Whackers weeds.
1 heard.
At least one can imagine.

But Socrates is not speaking of the virtue.
Like to eat all the vegetables.
How much better it would have been.
Said.
If the word translated as excellence.

My words:
An adult. Now. Or atleast, that’s the rumor.
I keep thinking somebody is going to figure me out.
I stand in front of the photocopy machine.

I am copying a copy of a copy of a copy.
I notice how it picks up these imperfections.
As time goes by. It does not lose them.

I think about how this generation.
It will not know so much about imperfect copies.
I used to make tapes of tapes of audio tapes.
It would pick up these squawk garble hisses
across the generations. Like me.

Translated into French, back into English, into Latin, back into English, into Greek, back into English, into Khmer and back again:
An adult. Now. Or atleast, that’s the rumor.
I keep thinking somebody is going to figure me out.
I stand in front of the photocopy machine.

I am copying a copy of a copy of a copy.
I notice how it picks up these imperfections.
As time goes by. It does not lose them.

I think about how this generation.
It will not know so much about imperfect copies.
I used to make tapes of tapes of audio tapes.
It would pick up these squawk garble hisses
across the generations. Like me.

My words:
enjambment, as it happens.
Is not the state of strawberry slathered toast.
And Sting,
he sang about the aesthetics of chance.

I bring a meaning to these things here.
It is not what I wanted to say.
The final translations:
The scope of what happened.
With artificial strawberry is salvation.
and antibiotics
And the blood is the aesthetics of luck.

This will bring about the location: it is here.
This is not what it means.

Hidden Within

I.
I can not turn back
ward, to where I
we
were

I can not pass through the time after his passing,
rising, up, to prepare the way.
I can pass through the time of his silence,
as he bled down and on them.
I can not pass through the time of Love.
Through the time of his words.
And his magics.

From there
I could not pass the assembled shepards,
the frantic flight
The fuffilled promise.

I could not pass through that time Before
when it seemed He was gone.
Or the time of the fire in the desert.
Or the time of enslavement.
Or the fall and rise of our people among the strangers
in those strange lands.

I could not watch its pitchy timbers be reclaimed by the land.
I could not move further back.
Because at the end of that road.
Stands a warrior Angel.
And they are all warriors, the Angels.
With his flaming sword
built to cleave, and purify, and block all those who might wish

to turn backwards the clock.
To undo what has been done.
To escape the punishment inflicted on we sons and daughters.

It was not him but us, all along.
And the angel at the head of the path.

He will slice me opened.
And my innards will dampen my dry feet.
And the way they uncoil will be an oracle.
Speaking this truth:
There is no going home again,
Down the path we already tread.

II
There is the promise.
Of a return
to what we were meant to be.
It will not be founded by retracing our path.

III.
And so here we are
In this inbetween place.
This limbo place.
This dark life.
With it’s cruel glimmers of hope.

The glimmers of hope.
Are the cruelest.
Of all.

We are built to see their truth.
We are to blind to see how far away that truth is.

Our greatness is not a thing recaptured.
Our majesty will not be found in the returning.
What we are meant to be.
What we are made to be.
Wont be fond in our memories.
Our fathers memories. Our mothers.
And all the mothers. All the fathers.
That came before them.

He breathed into the dirt.
Breathed Life.
Breather Glory.
Breathed Image.

That is so long ago.
We have reached back into the filth.
Unliving filth.
With no breath, no glory.
We have smeared it upon ourselves.
We have covered that Great Light.

It is a hidden thing, now.

I can almost understand why you snuff it out.
I can almost see why you cut, and cut, and cut.
But you won’t find it there. Anymore than the astronauts ever found heaven.
And the diggers ever found hell.

I drift like you,
sometimes it is easier.
To deny the glory of our destiny.
We can say that it was self-delusion.
Wishful thinking.
Evolutionarily built in.

but
it is within.
It is within.

Now, all I know.
Is to grasp,
gamble, seek. Seek, and long.
For some truth imprinted upon the very deepest of me.

Cast adrift on endless oceans within.
Stumble and fall, spelunking the caverns of who I am.

Perhaps I will find it.
In the cadence and song of words assembled, just so.
Perhaps it will not be in the meaning but the melody.
Rhyme, and repition, assonance and alliteration.

Or perhaps denotations will conspire.
And suddently there will be this soaring.
As the meanings, constructed truimphant.
Soar! And they carry my very self with them.

Wreckage

“This week survivors of the collapse and family members of those who died were offered the chance to take home some of the bridge wreckage. The last lawsuit claims have been settled, and Minnesota’s Department of Transportation opened its warehouse for victims’ families to come and collect some of the mangled steel. Kim Dahl and her two children were among them.” –From an NPR report, August 30, 2013

Let us enter into the wreckage
Of our own collapsed bridge.
Together.

My fingers itch but I won’t reach out for your hand in the silence.
I won’t.
In this silence.

We stand in this converted hangar.
We stand in the shadows
Of what we had and what might have been

I hesitate and then go left around the pile that’s higher than me
And you go right around it.
Doesn’t that say everything that needs to be said?

Perhaps I will take this.
Mangled and rusting thing.
It is the way that you used to look at me.

Or there is this, smashed almost beyond recognition.
The way you used to know what I was going to say
Before I knew it.

It is quiet here except for the noises I am making.
There is so much wreckage here.
I am determined to dig through it all but I never will.

In truth it is not so much the souvenier I might take with me
As this desperate hope that answers might be lying here, somewhere.
I have begun, slow and methodical.

What are you doing in your own silence?
What are you thinking in your own silence?
I can still sense where you are, and you are not that far from me.

But you are too far from me, now,
All the time.
I settle on this thing.

It is as good as anything else.
Mangled. So irreparably shattered
I couldn’t tell you what it is, anymore.

That’s what I chose, out of all the things I might have.
You are backlit by the setting sun as you stand in the doorway ready to go.
And your hands are empty.

The Problem With Purgatory

 

The problem with purgatory

 

Is the lie that somebody else

 

Set the exchange rate

 

Between sin and suffering.

 

 

 

Those who do not understand what they have done.

 

They will walk away only thinking it ever began at all.

 

They will still carry it on their shoulders.

 

The debt apparently paid, the account is cleared to rack up more debt.

 

 

 

And those who are beginning to understand.

 

They will never walk out of the place at all.

 

They wil withstand the sufferings forever.

 

Waiting for their account to flow into black.

 

 

 

The problem with purgatory is that it’s not the suffering that’s redemptive.

 

Its what we do in the quiet aftermath.

 

It’s how we move foreward that matters.

 

And purgatory offers us this lovely chance to wait there forever.