No Wings

More pain now, more joy later
tied down to earth
worn out in search
beat my forehead and clasp my knees
with no wings to fly

The Terrible Silence of God Is Coming

     This is a true story. Nothing has been invented. Nothing has been changed. Not even the names have
been changed to protect the innocent. The author leaves it to you to determine the reasonableness of the views expressed. If we have established the statutory requirements, we will be well pleased.

    I was on a stakeout with my partner, G., in a car – a standard midtown sedan, gray. Standard police issue – but she was never in my car. Nevermind the lurid hush-hush tales you hear on on the nets. Bring me documentary evidence. Bring me oral histories or verbal reports. She’d just flown back into town a few days ago. Always needed a fix – but she wouldn’t talk about it. And anyway, I never met her outside of the office, outside of business hours.

    These are the questions that needed answers: Who was here when she was here? Who was paying for it all? Her attorneys were asking the same questions – but with their budget, I’d bet that they were getting better answers than we were. Who’s being unfair here? It’s a hell-storm, shit-show of our own creation, duly authorized and fully approved by officials of the highest caliber. Receipts showed three hundred and fifty thousand in this year alone.

    So we waited and we watched. We would find an answer. G. cleaned and oiled his gun while I sipped old coffee from a paper cup and worried the crossword puzzle in the paper. Code No. 0075 from Room 40 stumped me. I couldn’t work a miracle. Filings and collations on all the intercepts – rows and columns of numbers and letters. 9000 range in the last group, last row. This kind of thing was usually reserved for double encoded names. I thought I might be on to something here.

    On the street, in the cold, war and diplomacy, drug deals and stock exchanges. Take me through from A to B to C. The police will come and consequences follow – at least that’s how it’s supposed to operate. Marijuana. Heroin. Codeine. Hide the circumstances. These back room, street corner deals are usually conducted in secret. But, no sir. Not here. Not in America. Twelve thousand of General Pershing’s troops in Mexico would beg to disagree.

    The call came over the radio: “Calling all groups: Pry meaning from action and locate the missing explosive materials. Photos to follow.”

    “So we wait.” G. said and I agreed. “We wait and watch. Nothing’s changed. Not deadly peril. Not possible miracle.”

    We had the telegram. We had the purloined snapshot showing the suspect on vacation with two buxom beauties (neither his wife). We had pages and pages of decoded documents from the state department. But over all of this we still had questions: Why?

    The call came again: “You have one minute to make up your mind. Move now or suffer.” The bosses had enough – they thought – to demand immediate action, but we were not convinced. The liar lies. It’s what he is. It’s what he does.

    “Should we go?” G. asked me, his voice already fading into the cold.

    “The Terrible Silence of God is coming,” I answered. “And we will, come what may, do what we must.”

Misquoting It - And Badly

     “I know the truth of it. I know what is real and what is required,” she said to me in the hall where it smelled of sweat, and stale cigarette smoke, and boiled cabbage. She cornered me, trapped me in the hall and insisted that I listen to her as she told me a series of stories of divorce heard second hand and strange tales of invisible, two-headed children at play. “You’ve heard the stories,” she asserted. “You’ve heard the reports of sinners, and satanists, and sexual deviants.”

    I nodded, not knowing what to say.

    She began again, stepping closer. I could smell her sour breath. “We live in an assassination culture…”

    “Cut it out, Hazel. I’ve warned you about this.” The booming voice of the landlord echoed through the hall. “Leave that man be.”

    Hazel turned away from me toward the unseen voice. “But…”

    “Now I’m not gonna' tell you again. This is your final notice.”

    “But…”

    “Your final notice, Hazel. Your identity – your finances will all be transferred.”

    This whole conversation was making me uncomfortable. I just wanted to deliver the mail and be on my way. I had a route to finish and a supervisor monitoring my time. “I think I may have compromised…” I started to say.

    “Compromised,” The landlord repeated. “Yes. That’s the word. The true word.”

    I nodded, not knowing what to say.

    “She’s alive, right?” the landlord sneered.

    “Well, I don’t know…”

    “Alive, but genetically modified. I mean, look at her.” He grabbed her chin and turned her face toward me so I could see her. Take a better look. “Look at her. That building, that body’s been vacant for months.”

    “And you’re still charging her rent?” I demanded.

    “You know what they say,” he sneered. “The sorrow of the world is death. The sorrow of the world is death.”

    “I know the reference,” I told him. “And I know that you’re misquoting it. And badly.”

    I looked at her again and she smiled at me. “We see your open and palpitating heart. My ears and my heart.” She laughed. “These,” she said pointing to the landlord, “are the manifestations not of doubt, but of deliberate, willful disbelief. This is the sixth hour darkness of hardhearted, soft-headed politicians.”

    “Hey, hey, hey,” objected the landlord. “I don’t wanna’ hear no more of that. I’m warnin' you.” But he turned and left without a word or action more. Hazel returned to her apartment. And I continued along my route.

Faithless, Hopeless

Another day of sweaty desperation
and psychotic spirals
twelve miles more and I’ll be done
till tomorrow when it begins again.

But what about now?
a faithless, hopeless future
only love remains.
Maybe that will be enough.

Suffer Till Someone Else Takes Over

 

Now we find ourselves living in a state of death
in this mere mortal homicide homeland
we are isolated in an endless universe
and gravitational collapse seems imminent
the emergency preparedness test sirens
blare through our hymns and prayers.

Why all the lies? Despair is an insult to God
but give me the benefit of the doubt
I’m broken. Try me. I’m still somewhat functional
let me suffer. suffer. suffer
till someone else takes over
there’s nothing left to plunder.

6:30 Mindful of Time and Late

     6:30 mindful of time and late – as if we were the last, lost souls beneath the throne of glory – in a small diner where a woman was killed. Call it a misunderstanding over a cup of coffee. Was it murder? Assault? An accident? The question is still lingering.

    Why, just yesterday they were driving combat vehicles through these streets to crush “the threat of civilization,” they said. A global war of destiny sparked and fueled by their own unstable emotional impulses, led by the noise and blinded by the sun, the sun, the blinding sun. There were fascist actions in Oklahoma City. Fascist actions in Des Moines. All the fanatical, fundamentalist righteousness of people devoid of empathy. We fall apart and burn in a hell of our own making.

    Please. I can’t stand to be alone. And I can’t stand alone. We are in this together. My agnostic friend is desperate enough to talk to God, if you would believe it. I do. I’ve been there myself. I’ve not always believed, so I understand. And I tell him so, but he doesn’t believe me.

    This malnutrition. Apathy. Atrophy. Beaten and sore abused. Burned with cigarettes. Like a battered car. Broken down and crippled under the archway in a puddle of urine. Now which is worse – you tell me – if the urine is mine? Or if the urine belongs to someone else?

    This is the fifth chapter. Apologies. This is the fifth mystery – divided – where the music (and the world?) ends abruptly. But how did it begin, you ask. How did it begin? It began with the Why. Not how are you? But Why are you? It began with the word and the word was Why​?

Confess!

I am naught but dust and ash, smoke and small engine noise, subject to the cruelty and violence of the masters and their sons, all the scions of grasping little men. They caught me and drugged me and drug me behind the car for half a block before dropping me into this cell where I am now. 

All this happens. They ask me many questions. 

“What is this God?

And you, who are you?

What comes first? What came next?

Who is responsible for seizing and staring into the darkness and silence? Recall!”

The room has one small window, high on the wall and barred. I do not know how long I have been here. I do not know how long I will stay. 

“We want the things held in your memory, all the false arguments and false objections. Ready for proper classification of impressions - hard or soft, cold or hot, outside or inside. Open up your memory, the treasure house, that great harbor of secrets, brought back and reproduced on command.”

They want me to confess my secret exhaultations. They want me to confess my trembling. They want me to confess my secret sorrow into the ears of unbelieving men.

All this happens and again. 

“Do this! Not that! Only this, never that! Speak not to yourself, but to us. Speak to these things uncontained. Answer all types of questions. What grammar? Does the thing exist? What is it and what kind?”

“If you make a sound it will not go unreported, unrecorded. Cease and sink. Slip away. But there is nowhere else to go. Name the numbers and number the names for our official reports.”

I will remember to forget and will forget to remember. This is how I will live. All this happens and repeat. 

I remember a woman with a light. Beautiful and well praised by her neighbors. I remember the darkness when she was discovered… how could we have known? I remember many accusations, those accusations looked for and found, all those lost experiences - repressed, oppressed, suppressed. But when the memory loses itself… try to recollect and it is something other. Rejected, unrecognized, unremembered. 

“We demand a restoration!”

I am naught but dust and ash, smoke and small engine noise. I do not know what has been said or what will be declared. Till then I will try to remain content in the hope of happiness.

“Late it was and later now. Within and without, we are here. Shattered deaf, flashed and shone, scattered blind, breathing, panting, hungry, thirsty, burned for peace, but still you cling to sorrow. You are a burden to yourself. We should find joy, on which side stands victory. We should find pity and mercy - but you are sad and full of wounds. Is not the life of a man upon the earth all trial? But there will be no trial for you. No due process, no bill of rights with all its protections. No.”

All my hope is nowhere. All my hope is now here. Ever burning, never extinguished. Set me on fire. 

“You are a problem, an infirmity, a groaning, glowing ember dimmed with age. A base and disgraceful thing with contempt. But this is another day in which we will repair our previous losses. Confess to our brotherly and devout ears. We have your clothes and your shoes. We have the photographs of your adult children.”

All this happens. Repeat. 

“Listen to yourself. What pleasure would there be for us in your mangled corpse? None. But what horror? Also none. There is no need to go to the lengths of producing further examples. Confess!”

In this space, folded upon space, I will not be discovered. There is no secure space for my soul. Scattered. Brought together. Held fast before open doors and sweet delights. Held back again, weighed down. Miserable. 

“We will be loved and we will be feared. Without interruption. Without intermission.  We will command your mind with a single observation. Who would rescue you? The help of angels? What prayer? What sacrament? The pope is dead. Now strange visions and delusions. The prince of the air is our fellow conspirator.”

All this happens and again. 

“Here you are free among the dead - Confess!

Here you are victim and victor - Confess!

Here you should despair - Confess!

Many and great are your infirmities - Confess!

Terrified by the mass and weight of misery - Confess!”

Do Shadows Even Bleed?

My shadow’s gone missing. It ran out the door last night as I was feeding the outside cats. It’s lost somewhere in the neighborhood; it can’t have gone far. It’s my shadow after all. Still- proximity is a delusion and cannot be trusted. 

Please be alert. Please post extra security and patrol the grounds. Be wary of junkies with a record of assaulting doctors. Be wary of corrupted cops. Beware of mind-control killers - though they may be working remotely in a different neighborhood. 

Is there direct evidence of a conspiracy? Any evidence? There’s too much blood for a simple game of hangman. Do shadows even bleed? 

The midnight police are at the door. No one can see. No one can hear. Bang. Bang. Bang. Police! Open the door! They come with flashlights but no probable cause. With battering rams but no warrant. With bruises and swelling and a broken nose on the floor. 

Threaten the translators. Condemn the pope for a resurrection story that doesn’t include our national flag. No matter what they say about the queers, they’re soft on actual crime. Tag and mark the whistleblower - he’s the real criminal. 

Sunrise and Moonfall (Memento Mori)

The shadow of a bird 

flying up in the sky 

runs along the ground 

where there used to be a tree. 

Sunrise and moonfall, transitory. 

 Sparks fly up into

 the cold of the night, 

 a baby takes a breath 

 and her mother says goodbye. 

 Sunrise and moonfall, transitory. 

 Memento mori. 

A Magnolia tree 

pink and white 

loses all its blossoms 

in the rainstorm overnight. 

Sunrise and moonfall, transitory. 

 I’m not ready 

 for the rain to stop just yet,

 I’ll continue walking 

 though I am getting wet. 

 Sunrise and moonfall, transitory. 

 Memento mori.

It’s a song I wrote as I carried mail yesterday and today. 

Christians, to the Paschal Victim

 I sang this song at church this morning. The music is by Ken Canedo. The words go back to the 11th century. 

Resurrection Comes Slowly

 There was little good in that Good Friday four years ago. Everything changes. Everything is always changing. That was the day that everything changed. That was the day that my now ex wife moved out. 

I’d planned to go to work as normal in the morning. I thought I could be gone while she left, that I could focus on work and not think about it. But I’d forgotten or failed to notice (a lot slipped by me in those days) that we had that day off. So I couldn’t avoid it. I decided instead to take my camera to a nearby wildlife preserve and to spend the day taking pictures of wild flowers and wild beasts. 

I almost offered to help her load the rental truck instead of going to the park. Not because I was eager to see her gone, but because I was desperate for her to stay. Make of that what you will; I don’t understand it. 

But the wildlife preserve was a waste. I don’t know why I bothered to bring my camera. There was no art in me. No life. No clarity of thought or vision. No sight. If there were blooms, I don’t remember them. If there were birds, I didn’t hear them. I was oblivious. Senseless. 

All I remember is that it was grey, and overcast, and cold that day Or I was. I was grey, and overcast, and cold. 

I hiked around the park for several hours. I took no photos. I ate lunch in Des Moines but I don’t remember what I ate. I wasted time  for as long as I could and then I came home to an empty house. She was gone. The kids were gone. The pets were gone. (We had agreed that she would take the dog and leave the cat with me- but she lied and took both.)

I don’t remember that Saturday at all. I was in a grave of my own. 

Sunday came. Easter. Resurrection Sunday. I walked to church, struggling to pull myself together. But as soon as we sang the first hallelujah, it all fell apart. I fled the sanctuary in tears. 

Four years later, I’m alive and happy again but I remember the hurt. I remember the desperation. Even the risen Christ told his followers not to cling to him - did it hurt too much?- and retained the scars of his execution. 

I am alive and happy again but resurrection comes slowly and often times the wounds are still visible. 

Day and Night (more or less)

 

A Familiar Ache

My reoccurring, on again-off again, ache is returned today to trouble me. A familiar ache, I feel it in my head. I feel it in my nervous stomach. 

The pressure of the air, the wind in my face, the noise of trains, and lawnmower engines, and barking dogs, and ambulance sirens. Every step another thud of the hammer. Every step another spike through the eye. 

But I’m not crying for the way things are - as bad as they are. If there are tears they are for the never was and the might have beens. I’m hurting now, but it will pass. Some Tylenol, some water, some rest. Till then I keep moving.  

Somewhere, elsewhere in one of those capital capitals, one of those centers of power and wealth and influence, someone is brokering another deal, trading information, buying and selling the world. What little it means to me. They can buy and sell it all and they still won’t have me. 

Home is where I want to be. 

My head hurts and my stomach rolls, but I am cheered by dandelions and purple flowers that I cannot identify. I am on my way home. 

Take It and Read (A Song with Saint Augustine)

 I wrote and recoded this little song this afternoon- cribbing lines from Saint Augustine’s Confessions. 

My house is too narrow

My soul is too small

I am collapsed and ruined

Enter, enlarge, rebuild it all

Take it and read

Take it and read

Take it and read

Not in rioting and drunkenness 

Not in chambering and wantoness 

Not in strife or in envy

But put on, put on the Lord

Make no provision

For the flesh

In concupiscence 

My house is too narrow

My soul is too small

I am collapsed and ruined

Enter, enlarge, rebuild it all

Take it and read

Take it and read

Take it and read