The Writ

Americans marrying abroad have to complete a number of forms:

Chief among them a contract
Defining marriage itself,
A holy writ designed to stem the flow of nature.

For while marrying abroad is considered a paean to order—
The primacy of an almighty creator,
And the nature of things—,
Truly, streams run inexorably toward chaos
And ruin:

Precursors to renewal;
Inevitable circumstances,
Hidden and debased by the pragmatic concerns
Of the deluded American.


Sunday Service

Holy man in the subway, fingers stretched to breaking across a pearl keymap
(Well, maybe not pearl
But close enough in the Universal Scheme)

Seeks a new sound—
One to break the deadlock of evolution
And unite the world as one.
But the world is already one:

All gods are the same god,
Of the same spark fanned
And bred;
Lonesome walks the traveler who
This great truth.

But the Holy Man is not lonely,
For he sits among the rest.
They pass him by without a thought,
But the squawk of his horn is
The pouring forth
Of the same confusion.

If every day was like Christmas

If every day was like Christmas,
I’d jump into the sea.
I’d sink down through the deep dark depths
‘Til there was nothing left of me.

I’d let my spirit float away
Beyond the great, yawning divide
That keeps us from eternity,
Holding us pris’nor, trapped, resigned

To endless thoughts of what’s ahead,
Rather than what we have, instead,
Because despite our weak’ning cries,
We don’t believe in God.

And while so many drop in prayer,
Prostrate themselves before the glare
Of naked sky, of empty rooms,
That simply won’t reveal the flaws

Intrinsic to such bitter kneeling,
Sad escape from depth of feeling
That might finally release
Both of us from unnat’ral laws,

Others look behind the stars,
See nothing but deserts on Mars,
And know that that should be enough
To drive us to each other’s arms.

Radiant and Undefiled

Radiant and undefiled, the arcs

Of lightning further glow,

Until the hollow, wayward night

Doth swallow up the shattered seeds

Of fallen sky—the tears of God—

That split in twain and ever flow

Away into Eternity, where

Fortune ultimately leads.

There’s little point in reaching up

To hoist ourselves among the clouds,

But fitful hearts conspire to

Sing songs of urgent memory,

And while the rigors of forethought

Decline to lift their damp’ning shrouds,

We leap until our knees dissolve

And lay us down alone to bleed.

Untitled 7

From my balcony, I could view the Pacific

And watch the parade of majestic ships at sea.

Each day, the gentle waves

That rocked those fine ships

Along the coast,

Sent the bows ever higher,

Arrows aimed at the brow of God.


In the morning, as the sun’s glints pierced my eye

And drew me to the balcony once more,

The line of ships rose higher.

The horizon moved toward the sun,

And the crescent of light at the edge shone down,

A call from heaven to the sea,

A glimpse of eternity for man.


The sea was never satisfied,

Jealous of my perspective,

And reached higher as rain fell,

And the earth beneath my house quavered,

Fearful of the rage that grew within

The still waters of the great ocean,

Left cracked and raw, an affront to the view.


One morning I stepped outside,

Onto my balcony,

And though I could hear the loll of the waves above me,

I could see only mud.