Dr. Quigley began to take his coffee

black, right about the time a clover

appeared on his chest.

At first he thought it was a type of stigmata.

He belonged to a tribe that did not yet exist,

and this gave him enormous satisfaction.

At night he dreamt deeply, his extended family

vacationing on cruise ships along the west coast

of California, probably Venice Beach,

and in the dream this made him happy.

The streets of the city were flooded,

and there were storms moving in the distance.

He could hear the echoes of paddles

along the shore, and the cries of seagulls.

Alone, he gazed at water flowing

beneath the stars, darkness

huddled silently in distant redwoods.

He was saddened by the last sighs of autumn

and the departures of loved ones.

He noted a direct correlation exists

between mental stability

and appreciation for the beauty of women.

For this reason, he kept a harmonica

in his pocket at all times,

and he smiled faintly while driving.

It was time to begin the work

for which he would someday be made famous,

and he wanted to have something on hand

in case they came for him,

the mist slowing his thoughts down

to the trickle of a prayer:

The next time I see the kind of light

that resembles the arc of the soul,

I will be ready–

for I am nothing without you.

Make me the water that flows

from the hands and lips

of distant hills.

Make me the shadow that moves

close to the river and weeps.

Make me hear your words

in the whisper of waves.

Make me silence,

even if it steals something deep,

something true and beautiful

from the well of my being.

Let me stay here,

let me hear one note

from the one whom I love.

*

In the morning it was the same:

a shot of whiskey–

no answers from the grave.

Stillborn flag. Neighbor’s pole. Clouds

drop in. I want what everybody wants:

a drink. Fireworks. Some sex. Instead

it’s  stars and stripes forever

fucked. Mother and child bike helmeted

by a strong belief in future peril.

Trees sag. Cars pass out

on the relentless boulevard. A small town

lazily dreams of its dead. Ice cream melts

in the hand of surprised child

who will grow to be appalled. The author

of this is laughing behind the sun, handing

out flyers for reelection to angels

reminding them that all employees

must wash hands.

that it’s clear I have no feelings

when each letter arrives

igniting in my open palm

that what I have sucks

so someone else

can come through as an elixir

that teases as it taunts:

you can’t catch a buzz

from me.

Dr. Quigley was daydreaming again:

Le Top of the World Cafe,

his favorite Parisean hot spot

where he could hear The Carpenters 24/7.

He loved to daydream. His school days

spent lovingly watching the seasons,

leaves brushing against the windows

like distant echoes of an aria.

Now the click and ping of espresso cups

made him quiver with anxiety

as he took his seat at the public reading,

located at Busboys and Poets,

23rd & I, Northwest D.C.

He observed various groups at the tables

around him,  tainted drinks of all shapes and colors

like stained glass in the faint aura

of the insane. The first poet took the stage.

Dr. Quigley watched as the room

began to metabolize liturgically,

the cadence of the ode

held for him the agony of a pasion play.

He turned to a fellow worshipper and said

I must confess, my transfiguration is

wholly linguistic in nature.

Instantly, he sensed his transgression:

His solitude made him wish for his mother.

Then, a frail, poet on the half-shell

took the stage. He listened, transformed,

as words began to fill his sails.

Elephants boarded ships for India,

a migration funded by global warming.

He wondered if he could be re-incarnated

as an idea. When it was over,

he leaned close to his neighbor and said

Trotsky opens doors to new worlds.

Are you ready to unveil yourself?

The monkeys of the world are on the march,

and they know your name.

Someday, he hoped to die for his beliefs.

It was yesterday once more.

lit with orange and purple, the shadows blue

and long–sledding on the earthworks

at Fort C.F. Smith. What is left of the Civil War

is hidden under the snow. The kids do not know.

Soon, they are wet and cold, pants dark and steamy,

bodies sliding down into the hollow. They are happy.

There are other boys here , and they take sides

against them. First, who has the best sled.

Then, who has the longest run, who can hit the jump.

One boy looks at me as we begin the trudge

back to the car. He says, I do not like the Earth,

and I tell him, either do I.

[photoshelter-img width='300' height='471' i_id='I00000RsIo81qUCQ' buy='0']

The windows are gone and the grass is up

to our knees as we are led to the porch.

Someone tells us over and over stop,

go back to the road, but our path remains:

we can see through the house and out to where

souls collect beside the bonfire pit. Beams

of light turn the pages on the walls. Thin

lines of poetry reach upwards and away

from the dream, but we are called to this

place, one sylllable at a time, one word

on our lips, one liturgy now broken

and another remains high above us:

look down into the dream to hear whispers

you were created to live forever.

[photoshelter-img width='275' height='433' i_id='I0000YeN3pAO_lKk' buy='0']

Vera. She taught me to see

while still in the womb,

how to read with unformed

eyes–I close them, and she is there,

a dialectic of alphabetic blood

and still in flow. She weaves letters

into puddles of light.

If she moves near you, in a dream,

her skin appears the color of Easter eggs.

She is fragile. Her lips are blue,

and there are tiny wrinkles on her ears.

She jots down notes about the future.

*

James. He appeared when I was shopping

at the west-side grocery in Athens, Ohio.

He said, “Hello Scott,” and kept going

down the aisle. I tried to follow him

but he had already passed the end-cap,

so I ran to the front without my cart

to cut him off, but he was out,

still there but gone, a little sprite

playing hopscotch with my soul.

He showed up a few years ago in photos

from Shenandoah National Park.

I knew it was him.

He was standing on a rock in a black suit,

and he had the look, the gaze that is long

and the eyes that change and look away,

like a season inside an iris with a storm pattern

that never settles. He likes to peel potatoes

wearing nothing but old socks.

The skin of his buttocks is wrinkled,

pressed white from sitting too long

on the old stool he brought from the barn.

He needs a haircut, his teeth are yellow,

and he quit going to church long ago,

which is why I know him.

*

Then there was Shol,

the one I met in San Salvador,

who came to teach me the truth

about Hell.

He came in the form of beauty,

a flower, la floripundia,

and at night its erotic scent

would drift into my window

and sit on my chest

until I was asleep.

Soon I was suspended over a hot

pit of black pitch and dipped

until each of my cells screamed in pain.

I could not hear them,

I felt them reach for salvation

and fail, fail as the last gurgle

of my lungs began to echo

off the walls to startle me from sleep.

Then its voice said

No, this is not a conversation.

Finish your poem.

James

How we held hands and cried below a window

filled with light, branches bending the wind.

You wore your blue soul, just the way I like it,

the one with the open back, folds above the hips,

a litle string to pull and find God.

You spent the morning in the Egyptian room,

touching the black sarcophagus , flirting

with the docents, as you remained unnoticed

and passed gas among those

so long dead. So long dead.

Why did you write it this way?

There are better words.

No. These words. This soul. This exhibit. This dress.

And light. A poem without light

is like skinny dipping in the toilet:

indecent, obscene, just the way you like it.

The only way they want it.

oscillating bars of steel and concrete.

Each back is purple from beatings,

untouchable flesh.

They begin the whistles and clicks

of the insane–without tongues,

there remains a bird-like alveolar pop

in their mouths, the sound

like a playing card  tapping the spokes

of a bike wheel. They press fingers

to each throat, feeling for a buzz,

much as honeybees circle augurs

in the warehouses of the damned.

Most are sent for assimilation:

they learn to write long poems

on what they think about while mating.

The keepers know when they are in heat:

they purr in soft z, the skin shimmers

hieroglyphically, their tails point

toward the smoke trails of Icarus.

One of them, a young one,

continues to have memories

of the time before the great passage:

a ballerina on a thin cobweb spun by god.

She remembers the gardens

behind the eyes of each soul:

she is sent away for genital mutilation.

Soon, she will reappear at Wal-Mart

to dust fake plants with a small broom

made in China.

I might be taken down by a sniffle,

or a strong hand could do the job, a kiss

from the wind of creation. It’s my soul.

A stranger before birth. It is morning

on the starry banks of eternity–

we undress in the first room we made love.

You undress. I am dead. I am not born

for a long time. You are empty, vanquished,

heading home. There are excuses. I know.

We are made for them, but today let us

hold hands and pray. Forgiveness — the only

miracle we need, is on down the bend,

on the other side. Come on, let’s rub hands–

spark again, later we will learn to sin.

Your movements are watched:

They have already found you.

This is the only certainty,

and will remain the reason for poetry.

Prophets Alone in Hell, Book IV, 21-3.

All the back rubbing is over, and the poet’s hands

turn ethereal – their eyes begin to water the land

and run off  into white space. They travel down

the Colorado, staring at its banks

for hours, hoping for stanza breaks that never unveil.

Their despair nearly complete: their condition –

terminal. The movement of water is sufficient for now,

its reflections the last place on earth

they can touch and find themselves

completely blameless. Lights appear as they float

near Las Vegas. At night and they huddle down

for warmth and secrecy. They intertwine like pieces

of polished driftwood, their flesh blemished and lined

with the tattoos of passages they must touch

to remember. The leader, the weakest one,

encourages silence, meditation, and the slow cadence

of the heartbeat to soothe. The latest attempt at religion –

a failure. Absent a god, they have no reason to praise.

When they stare into the water, they see nothing

but clouds that spell and ripple themselves to sleep.

Depression and loneliness begin to gnaw the strong

into silence — the lame accept death with smiles

and slow nods of agreement. The dead are pushed

off the rafts without words, the echoes

of each splash ripple up the canyon walls

and outward to space. In the vague recesses

of what is left for cognition, they want to be taken.

They lie down to fossilize and fixate on the sky,

hoping for a  last glimpse of the shadows that circle

and descend to them, the only gods that deliver

anything close to salvation – a temporary presence

of physical comfort, a moment of cool air –

an absence that cannot be named.

She wore well

coming on slowly

until she allowed you

to journey her.

She wore her beauty

like a hidden treasure,

all natural and fresh.

She rarely spoke

but her eyes

held hidden messages

waiting to be revealed.

She revealed

if you took the time

to unwrap and notice.

She moved gracefully

like a loose ribbon

in a dance.

She was shy

unless you were lucky

enough

to be her love.

She was fluid

like a silk tunic.

She wore the world

like a loose garment

knowing

she would remove it

when it was time.

scribbled within her  body.

He wanted to dig down,

examine their origin,

curious to know why her race

marked her for this fate

on this world of ink and blood.

He had thought other worlds

escaped the bondage of form.

He had long ago grown weary

of people and eschatology.

As he began another incision,

careful to follow with a cloth

to absorb fluids,

he remembered the last time

he witnessed her body

sprawled on his bed. The sunlight

perfect, the afternoon

no different from centuries ago:

drifting sands, chaff and wheat,

caravans for spice and coffee,

a strip of moonlight to know

the right time to enter.

He rubbed her now,

with oils and perfumed herbs,

no longer able to distinguish

a difference between pleasure

and the poetry that shaped

her beauty:  the lines

recited until she stopped

for breath and meaning,

exactly the way he remembered

and nothing left but silence.

for Mrs. Burns

But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.

Matthew 18: 6

If I could start over and get it right this time

I would begin by killing my kindergarten teacher,

Mrs. Burns. She was a bitch. Her gaze was hot,

and so was her hand, the one she used to spank

on the first day of school. I could not tie my shoes.

Now, just one shoelace would do. I would tie it

around her neck with a slip knot and pull it tight

till her face turned purple and her eyes popped

out of this poem, stuffed down her throat,

the apple I never gave her.

the sunny day they met

at the four-way stop

and everything changed.

The motorcycle catapulted

and flipped

above its driver, finally landing

on top of him. I could see his legs,

the way they moved

and soon,

the way they stopped.

The red convertible

slammed into a tree

and turned over on its side,

where two young

women lay on the ground.

One of them was talking,

telling the other, over and over,

how sorry she felt.

She held her hands up to her face.

Someone ran out of a house

with blankets

and covered them.

She was screaming now.

I wanted to go home,

and later I did,

driving right through it.

but after months of debate

he went forward with the notion

that  it was time to record

his most unusual observations:

Made contact with a race of aliens.

Subject was female, complained

of pain in the lower abdomen.

Diagnosed cervical cancer.

It all comes down to the cervix.

He was nearly certain of it.

He remembered his travels

after completing his last degree.

He waited for hours on the side

of Mt. Ararat for the solar eclipse,

short ring of fire, long circle of life.

In the valley below him,

he noticed a pair of goats mating

in the forced dusk of a twilight

no one else would ever believe,

his mind certain of images

no one should see.

for Ana Rina

Tonight blue light rose above us

to the fields of space itself,

to the heights where our eyes fail

and only prayers can  see.

In the spaces we live

we light candles, we make stars

come alive inside of us,

and each one, one day,

became a son, a world

we orbit now in love.

We see them now

in our dreams, for in love

our path has been written

by the hand of god.

I follow your eyes upward,

and as beauty recognizes beauty,

a peace comes over me

and through me,

the only feeling that will outlast

the night, the vision

of your full eyes and your soul,

open to nature’s glory,

always my one dream of flight,

my vision of heaven.

a strange sucking sound

like thunder. When the wind

blows  in your direction

you can see them

huddled in open fields

waiting to be taken.

Bodies caked

with dried mud,

rubbing harmonically,

they stand like stalagmites

made of decayed deposits

and layers of licked

salt. Heat lightening

in the distance

flicks across their foreheads,

where the absence of eye

lashes and hair follicles

creates tattoos of distant

skylines, where prophets

gaze upon them –

open eyes and mouths –

each tongue balanced

on the edge of poetics

meant for an unborn god,

on a frozen canvas

draped in darkness.