Seven

~Prisoner~ The rancid sky The frail cobweb The peeling paint The patient spider The good book The hard cock The naked bulb- All I know of God As I enter and re-enter This prayer. ~Down in the Village~ Too-the rats snort Their own kind Of nirvana In the tunnel To the sad places Behind my eyes, Yon Golgothas Fresh with new crosses Eager to redeem Fallen humanity. The discarded bags Of chips, And the busted roaches Of the perpetually High Know the tedium, The noble toil Of my closet ascetics The moment I set them free. ~Mary~ She would take it all in, She would: The babe and its nostrils, Under the skunk moon And the pie-eyed stars, But I hold her in my niche Whispering psalms, Whispering psalms. ~Fata Morgana~ When I see them I never doubt it, Though the eyes, The mortal eyes Sometimes Have visions Mocked by faith. ~Sad Old Song~ A bird Sable as the heart On Sunday, Landed on My right thumb The moment I climbed Above despair, Then turned Into a peacock, Rainbow pigeon When I switched On the fan. ~Rings, Bands, Crosses~ They sought brevity, Fresh images. So they hung a pygmy From their nostrils, Lips, chins, nipples. From anything But their Ears. ~Nowhere At Dawn~ The star climbed over the edge, But lacked subtlety, Blazing like an overdose of salt In the wound of time. The bones of our ancestors Sank deeper Into our bowels And no longer Appeared in our dreams. But we lay stranded, Tethered to a hope, Begging for more.