Tongues

Brothers and Sisters,

raise your hands to the Lord.

Invite his Holy Spirit to fill your vessel

with his wonderous love.

 

Hallelujah!  Can I get an 'Amen'?

 

Ah-shah-la-la Me-kah-show-nah-teh,

Oh-nah-tah-shah Me-kah-tah-neh

Key-lo-mah-tah-tah-weh.

Speaking in Tounges, they called it.

Most merely stood in the pew

uttering concatenations,

our Old Man among them.

I studied his cadence and learned

to mimic the routine

so as not to be singled out for unbelief.

The grander the display the brighter

the accolades from church elders.

Some danced in the aisles.

Others launched into convulsive fits.

The best of them was Sister Mary Hoagarten,

a lowly widow from East Kansas City

with a silver bird's nest of hair

and bellowing, staccato delivery.

Mary committed to her performance.

She was method,

drawing from a boundless well

of resentment and betrayal

to deliver her weekly self-exorcism.

Mary writhed and howled,

trembled and flailed about,

always ending her number with a flurry

of guttural yawps that climaxed

in an abrupt silence which

centered the congratation

in solumn reflection.

Mary enjoyed a long and storied run

as the High Priestess of Spectacle,

until Lester Hollinger joined the congregation.

Brother Lest was a towering, erudite man,

always in the same charcoal undertaker's suit.

He never missed an opportunity

to promote his biblical memorization.

One Sunday morning,

Lester descended from the foyer

and assisted Mary off the carpet.

He ushered her to her seat,

shuffled to the microphone,

cleared his throat,

and delivered an 

Interpretation of Tongues:

Brothers, Sisters, our Lord and Savior

has revealed to me, his humble servant,
the message within Sister Mary's utterance.

 

Indeed, it is a passage from the Holy Book: 

I Corinthians 14:27-28.

 

'Let her keep silent in the church, 

and let her speak only to herself and to God.'

A thundering chorus of Amens went up

to the heavens.

Eloise Jane 8.0

     Eloise Jane version 8.0 drops today.  This release is packed with curiosity and affection for animals and insects.  Eloise consumes endless video content about the animal world.  She desires an army of pets.  She scolds me for killing hornets and scorpions in the house, pleading with their executioner to show mercy.

     For her birthday, Eloise is receiving the gift of (and responsibility for) chickens.  Let's hope that, come v9.0 release, those chickens are still clucking.

     Happy Birthday, Miss Eloise Jane Lambert.  You make my heart oh so very happy!

W.S.B.

He occupied a ramshackle place

on the east side of town

with an entourage of cats, an arsenal of guns,

revolving celebrity guests.

Rumor circulated 'round the English Department

that he frequented The Bottleneck bar.

One November afternoon, I spotted him there,

crouched alone in a corner, pressed herringbone suit,

hickory-sword cane tap-tap-tapping to the music.

Our bartender whispered that he took tequila,

so I purchased two shots and approached.

"Pardon me, Mr. Burroughs.

I am just a B-I-G admirer

of your writing ...

May I offer you a tequila, Sir?"

"Why, certainly, young man."

We tossed back our shots.

I retrieved the glasses, and he eyeballed me

with his steely, cobalt eyes.

I fell into a trance waiting for him to blink:

These are the eyes that starred down

the barrel of a revolver

pointed at his wife's cranium (pow!),

eyes that peered unflinchingly

into a drug-crazed abyss,

eyes that crawled like an insect over

countless young male bodies.

The band lurched into a new song

and a curiosity sparked in my groin,

rocketed up my spine and burst into a dull haze

that rendered me speechless:

Is this old queen expecting a come-on?!

I'd have liked to impress the Godfather of the Beats

with tales of imagined literary exploits,

or regale him with a deliciously irreverent anecdote,

at least praise his influence on a moral code

skeptical of monotonous conformity.

Instead, I stood before the man an imbecile,

barely mustering an oafish smile,

which he met—bless him—with a kindly grin

that pierced my anxious fever.

I retreated to the bar.

"How did it go?" the bartender asked.

"Oh, brilliant ... Yeah ...

One for the memoires."

And some say it was William Burroughs,

not Thomas Lambert,

who brought the literary bona fides

to Lawrence, Kansas.

Iyla Grace 11.0

     Iyla Grace 11.0 arrives with some delightful upgrades, including a command of language and reading beyond her years.  This release is more independent and engaged with peers.  She talks on the phone with her "besties" every day who collaborate on short-film projects written and directed by You-Know-Who.

     Like her Papa, Iyla is most comfortable alone with her thoughts.  Daily, she walks the property carrying on conversations with herself, often experimenting with narrative and characters that will comprise her next film script.  To an outsider, this behavior may seem peculiar -- girl alone, talking aloud; to me, it is a showcase for immense, creative imagination.

    Happy Birthday, my Darling Iyla Grace!

Green Light

I reach for my daughters' hands

at the crosswalk.

Their miniature fingers orbit mine

in concentric circles,

landing with the force of a double sun.

"Look, Papa," the youngest says,

"Our hands are hugging!"

You might not be drawn into her gravitational pull.

Her planet is not part ofyour solar system.

But, perhaps you have a child

or held the future in your palm

and felt the sting of her breaking away

before you reach the safety of the sidewalk.

Traffic rushes headlong like a meteor shower,

awakening the acute vulnerability

to which I am eternally enjoined.

These are my co-creations,

skipping undaunted toward the light,

propelling us through space and time.

I am bound to them

like atoms in a molecular waltz,

like light waves captured in the event horizon,

like comets on a collision course,

like galaxies hurling toward

the void.

Port Aransas, Texas (2023)

       The girls wanted a beach holiday before returning to school ... I found a cheap motel suite near the ocean in Port Aransas, Texas, rented a motor cart to kick around the island, and off we went for six days of sun, sand, and surf on the Gulf Coast.

       These little ladies are becoming great travel companions:  funny and intelligent, polite and conscientious, playful and observant ... My heart is full!