Mary Mother of God

Let's just suffer on page one
where the kid comes running in
covered head to foot in pigshit

the rain floor to ceiling in the big house
a veritable omnipresent waterfall
crying leaking or drowning from each eye

the long arms of despair
if that's what you call hopelessness
in deed fault and fear of recrimination

only the barn full of hay
dry at the back of his mind
but his feet wouldn't take him

page two the funeral
he's your cousin
and we'll buy some paint

while we're at it one five
gallon tin on each handle
we'll be weaving back in the dark

killed in The Troubles and found
floating face down where's
the despair now

with Uncle Chris on the table at the bell
singing I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen
not a dry eye in the house

Death far gone
and the rain abated
I was never one

page three for discriminating
between the death of her chicken
by stoning by my own hand

or Leary bloated up North
the cousin I never met
so whenever I found myself alone

say at the Danish fort
encircled by hawthorn blackthorn
and small oak up there

in the ancient enclave useless now
to man and beast
I thought of what came out of my aunt's mouth

and pictured Herself at the North Pole
Her foot pressed hard at the Serpent's throat
His eyes bulging like two moons
trying to break free

Press It

Press it and hold it will anyone come
to let you in or will the entire landscape
disappear and leave you standing
in your birthday suit

I hear there's a sky in heaven
I hear there's one in hell too
I hear he asked you to just
let it go and you're the victim

of course why wouldn't he
say that he came in a dream
but will he answer the door
or better yet get on a bus

head straight for the ocean
not escaping so much as
landscaping your mood
filling in your depression

press it indeed knowing there's
a spark between every button
and the world of existence
it's hard to believe in say

Christmas or Democracy
keep your hands in your pockets
as you walk the shoreline
admit yourself to the witness

protection program for those
who didn't see a thing
for those who walked away
see that interesting shell?

someone's house once
now up against your ear
the ocean becomes your own
and the wind builds roofs

over the dwelling called
without a care or the wearing
away of the long guilt
smoothly we go

with our hollow houses
held tight against the coming
there on the shoreline where
a crab struggles upside down

legs tickling the air
but nobody laughing

Anosognosia

You don't know what you don't know
not that I'm accusing you dear reader
I'm taking a look at myself too and
I know as much as I can say I know
that I have tiptoed over the surface of

the world since infancy sure I broke
off weedstalks to use as fake swords
when I was rescuing fair damsels
in the garden and threw salt over my
shoulder too because Granny said so

and ever since collected other
people's superstitions like baseball
cards except I can't trade them well
maybe I could maybe I could swap
the black cat crossing the road for

don't cut your hair after sunset belief
here in the islands nor can I follow
the old wives' tales like baseball teams
to see who's on first or how many
RBIs and DUIs got racked up by

walking under a ladder or or
but I digress I'm the first one
to say you would be amazed
at how much I don't know
about myself even biologically

anatomically osteopathically
the pathways of the nerves
the web of sensitivity that runs
head to toe I can allude
to these inner workings

but I am not intimate even
with my own physiology
isn't it ironic I'd have to go
to medical school to find out
how the cranium flaunts

its fontanelle like a rift
in the seabed floor of my
blind mind on fingertips on
the home keys right here
just feeling my way

The First Thing

The first thing was an orange crate.

Cake tin lids for wheels and a room

filled with things to bump into or

around. A forest of chair legs 

cushions wooden cubes and woven

circles cylinders and the high plateau

where we raised our arms and ate

red green white brown yellow.

He sat behind a paper screen

held wide open a wall of alphabet

black and white an M a J an F

between us. My crate full of toys.

His slippered feet speed bumps or

sleeping policemen he called them.

But today when I burst through

onto his lap the world exploded.

He was the center and it did not

hold. That was the day I met

his anger. When did the days

begin to have names? Sunday

was a real day beginning to end.

Down the avenue of trees we walked.

Hand in hand with the giant

through the dark tunnel.

It was safe with him really.

We came out onto a river bank

where knots of men hunched

darkly over their fishing poles

divining the world beneath

the surface. Each tied on

to something I couldn't see.

Once a log floated by. No

a branch waving its shredded

stump caught up in the current.

Until I saw that the river

was a wet road you could

not cross. He answered

every question I asked.

Tomorrow will be Monday.

The Hair of the Barista

Just when you're least expecting it
you lift the lid of a boxful of pastries
and there straddling the circles
rectangles and spirals is one
long black hair silence descends
a hand reaches for the strand
plucks it away from the icing
and holds it aloft what more
can one say? Why proceed
further along the dark line
leading us back to the Doctrine
of Signatures to understand
better nay read what the barista
had written only minutes before
with one continuous line of sentiment
what curls what long dashes what
backwards twists and crossed
intentions conveyed by our conveyor
of delights. What expressions
from the espresso presser what
finds among the grinds we
can't resist this line

All morning from sun-up she
encounters the endless parade
across her counter the caffeine
needy who count on that cup
a shot a bit of froth that
bathéd every veyne in swich licour
it is April after all only
this rain has fallen therefore
the mysteries of the morning
shall remain locked up
in that dark filament

The Love of Your Life

Best not to think too hard sometimes
you squint and strain your brain
runs and hides in front of the television
or surfs the internet for hours the sphincter
has a shadow that grows tall at noon
best to breathe and open your eyes
but all this preamble too skirting around
the love of your life instead of sitting close
doing nothing in particular they say the skin's
the biggest organ in the bodily scheme
of things start there and peace be to
your winning smile that opens
up your difficulties with nonsense
and confusion your tang toungled
negotiations I'd say the love of your life
might best be other because holding
the bird too close as you know will
crush it and all oxygen will whoosh
out of your cave so the other it's true
is the mother of love's invention call it
simple reflection the possibilities
permutations are the stuff of conversation
and the rich activity of the arts and sciences
as usual words aren't going to get you
anywhere only action let's just say interaction
those moments that disappear as soon as we
notice I said we touch them love is
the Venn diagram where overlapping
leads to long napping leaning into other
with longing is the avocado pit in the pond
circle upon circle the marriage of true
circumferences breached by kissing again
and again

The Trait Most Deplored in Others

It's already started with the cold air
at our backs we begin to blame our
aches and pains on others just as we
expect Nirvana to be handed us by
anyone but ourselves waiting for
the Buddha to wake up and reach into
his pockets pull out the winning ticket
and say in broken English with a sublime
smile here you are you are here
it's here the thing you've been looking for
you can take it all at once or so many
now and some later at intervals
I suppose what I most deplore in others
I recognize with wincing familiarity
but since you asked I think too much
probably I think too much how much
time we spend in banter a deplorable thing
but then again without it we would learn
nothing indirectly and our lives so clean and sharp
would cut us we'd be a bloody mess in our
stasis without friends how about instead
stupidity even more deplorable than say
just being silly and larking about
no I'd say stupidity is up there
but even so I'd qualify it I've met
people with low intelligence a questionable
statement at the worst of times and
anyway they were fine decent people
who would do anything for you especially
that most precious gift compassion
also warmth also seeing you for who you are
no no pessimism would be it the person
who like E.F. Schumacher once brilliantly said
is afraid to even make a start the pessimist
is most deplorable

Impermanence in Stinson Beach U.S. Post Office

The postmistress with an empty bell
and her back to the door letters
packages and more on the floor
her face framed in the year
I stood on the side of the road outside
Eureka one eye looking out for the police
the other on the ditch I had to cross
to reach the trees where sleep was calling
no one stopping to give me a ride
so I picked up her bell by the diamond sutra
handle twisted as it was with flashes of lightning
and drops of dew all cast in bronze
shook it gently to dispel the fog in there
till she turned her head as if she heard
the ringing in my ears what else what else
perhaps sufficient dust particles vibrating
reaching that ancient desk where she
sat with her back rounded with her powerful
fingers spread wide over 868 stamps
I saw her body lift slightly with a breath
one two I waited I had time the silence
kept breaking and breaking beyond
my reach I put my hand
into this pocket that one too
searching for the right change
the right metaphor I knew
she wouldn't take more
especially less I looked up
to see her standing there snuffling
chanting over and over
it doesn't go out from here

Breakers

Tide's in washing every shoreline
with its predictability whether you're
watching or not whether the news
bringing the icecaps or Syria closer
further count the sets see how their
signatures are marked in debris
deceptive with its silent letter delivered
in sticks plastic bottle tops broken toy
shovels in a variety of colors condoms
too the world is littered with our attempts
at preventing life the inconveniences
with their hissing genuflections
their ambient whistling in the dark too
much you say there's too much life
I don't care what you think anymore
take another drink raise your innocent
glass to the half moon at four in the afternoon
before I walk away along the edge
feet sinking in your sinking expectations
over to the trite side that's where I'm headed
dimestore ejaculations and secondhand penumbras
anything to lessen this sense of diminishment
give life breath everything I've got to increase