Childish Things

Church bells clank and clamor
to welcome the shuffle of the devout
ascending stone, chapel steps.

As a youth, I was among them,
dutiful and wide-eyed, 

walking in the light of the redeemed
at my father's side.  

The bells sang
of a warring celestial realm, 

unseen to the sinner's eye, 

where armies of white-winged cherubs 

collide with silver-tongued devil armies
in a storybook crusade 

for man's eternal soul.  

The price of entry,
our untried imagination 

laid bare upon an alter gilded 

with the blood sacrifice 

frightened ancestors bargained 

to appease a jealous and vengeful Divine.  

A promise of holy reward 

animated our step, 

held fast our gaze upward 

to the heavenly chorus sounding

from the bell tower.  

We received it
with unquestioning assent,
heard it spoke in parable and psalm,
understood it as impressionable children
enamored of the treasures awaiting
god-fearing boys and girls. 

Believing came easy as skinning
a knee.

**First published in Castabout Literature & Arts Review

Other Women

He encounters her daily, 

on the streets, the television, at the pool,
in bars, airports, laundromats and supermarkets.

Sometimes she is brunette, other times blonde, 

recurrently Asian, Latina or African heritage.  

Once, she was a blind, deaf mute.

Always lively and aloof with an irreverent smile

and hips that swing to the devil's groove.  

He imagines their life together:
days sparked with high adventure, rapturous nights 

of fellowship and fucking, 

vacations on the Coast of Mexico.  

It would not be work.

She would prepare breakfast for him 

and tend to her garden on weekends.
She would have her own money, an inheritance 

from a birth father possessed of the grace 

to pass away before their engagement.

There would be few arguments between them,
and she would respect the artist, 

careful not to distract him with trivial matters 

such as house cleaning or automotive repair.

He would call her, Mi Dama Amante, 

and dedicate his works to her.

She would be an ideal companion.

But for her fixation with ceramic lawn gnomes, 

she would be impeccable.
The meddling midget devils, he cannot stand them
posted like sentinels about the lawn, 

scrutinizing every movement.

Even her younger sister agrees, the gnomes 

are a peculiar fetish.

The sister lives in West Hollywood, 

teaches yoga and dances professionally.
She laughs at his jokes.  

You should see the body on that girl!


**First published in Bluing the Blade, and winner of the "Bragi Poetry Award" at Tempered Runes Press.

Iyla Grace 6.0

  Iyla Grace 6.0 was released today.  My favorite feature is her growing empathy for the world outside herself.  Iyla will chastise my jaded regard for some humans with a simple, sweet charge:  "Papa, care for the world." ... I will try, Little Buddy.  Happy Birthday!

Amsterdam (2018)

Amsterdam, more than my beloved hometown, Austin, Texas, more than Chicago, San Francisco, Miami or New York, more than any American city, Amsterdam draws me into her orbit.  Only New Orleans approaches her easy charm.  A city older than the promise of the New World, Amsterdam has exorcised the demons of austerity – suffered and bled for it – and emerged a wise and mischievous soul ... A city that embraces the full human story and celebrates life as it is.

The Ancient Greeks Knew This

Young men without women live in a cracked 

and faded rooming house
at the corner of Lehigh Street and University Drive.

A bare, wrought-iron porch straddles 

the face of the house, furnished 

with a lone, derelict sofa.  

The men press their backs into the sofa springs,
purse their lips on beer bottles and cigarettes; 

the beer is sucked dry and bottles smashed 

against the crumbling pavement below.

Processed meats are tossed over a flaming grill, 

then devoured with ferocious appetites 

while disinterested young women stop
along the sidewalk so their dogs may shit 

on the unkempt lawn.

The men eyeball the women 

and joke about what they'd like to do to them,
and their dogs.  

By afternoon, their blood boils 

from the heat of the day, 

evoking raucous collegiate chants 

and uproarious feats of strength.  

They spar like wrestlers on the lawn.  

Barefoot and bellicose, stripped to their blue jeans, 

sweaty bodies entwine in ritual combat 

punctuated by breathless displays 

of virile comradery:

        the chest bump, 

        the bear hug, 

        the double high five.

To escape their awkwardness, 

the men pour whiskey shots 

and embellish tales of sexual conquest until

the long shadow of fatigue forces

a reluctant surrender.

They retire, each to his solitary space.  

And it's a stark, lonely place, that old house, 

beneath the cover of midnight 

when desperate hands slick with desire 

are drawn under soiled sheets 

and hot, August winds shake the rotting timber 

long stood between erotic passions yearning 

to be released and fraternal pleasures 

dared not entertained.

The Exalted Ones

They meet in the back rooms of coffee houses,
wine bars and bookstores.  Some send their stuff
to the magazines.  They write poems about rejection,
isolation, the tragic human condition, failed love.

They drag their friends along to ensure applause
and run up the flag declaring 'POETRY NIGHT'.
Organizers claim poetic awareness their intent,
but no one comes to the stage holding 

a god-damn unity candle for their beloved audience, 

even the ones who preach Love and Peace, 

who cry for change.  They, most of all, do it for the spotlight, 

for a chance to be heard and understood.

Shouting lyrics over cigarette smoke and cappuccino
machines, much of it is soft, overly-garnished
treatment of standard themes, else unintelligible,
angst-riddled banter.

Professor observes from the corner table, applauding,
half-sincere.  He also writes poetry, a good deal
more carefully.  His collection of haiku is for sale

next to the pastry display.

Afterwards, they congratulate and embrace
one another as new hopes are raised and new poems
find their way to the desks of magazine editors.
I pick up the magazines.  Nothing happens.

Has exalted poetry gone the way of the Aztecs?
Where is our Whitman?  Our Rimbaud?
Our howling Ginsberg?  How I long to taste
the exquisite madness of tyrannous, unbridled souls,

for a righteous voice to rise up and torch this
complacent landscape, deliver us from sedate,
coffee-house prose, weakling academics absent grit
or vision, and tired, angry verse such as this.

Eloise Jane 2.0

  Eloise "Weezy" Jane turns two today.  Our little lady warrior is often mistaken for a three-year-old.  She is B-I-G, in stature, personality, and heart.  She feels big, and the lives in her orbit are bigger for it ... Version 2.0 speaks complete sentences, will hug a crying child ("She sad, Papa"), falls down daily (hourly?).  This child's legs look like she lives alone in the woods.  Eloise relishes moments when her big sister, Iyla Grace, plays with her ... Happy Birthday, Lady Eloise!