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.


Wisps of Life Escape

Wisps of life escape

Through jaws clenched tight against a deep’ning stream

Of longheld notions,

Too entrenched for daylight to evaporate,

Toward spaces drawn

Behind the clouds where there resides a lasting dream

Of sparrows blown away,

Off course, lost lonesome along waves of time,

But singing as before,

Beyond the reach of self-inflicted lies

(Those tiny falsehoods

That cut often into barren, aching fate)

And fleeting thoughts of

Desp’rate times, glimpsed black between the rustling reeds.