diatribalArts

It was dark as I walked, pipe in hand…
not so sure where I’d end up;
I remember the old neighborhood in the summer months—
hills & trees & wild grasses
(however, still affected by the black-top and street lights of a city).

I walked head down; skin beading with sweat,
which would not evaporate.

It collected on my brow until it
trickled down the bridge of my nose;
another between shoulder blades descended the center of my back
(that one place where the cotton
t-shirt did not immediately soak it up).

Down the street and to the left…then turns too numerous to be recalled
as if the subdivision concealed a Minotaur waiting to ambush Argonauts.

Yet, there seemed only one path through the evening,
and my thoughts like Ariadne showed the way.

They were like blinders, my thoughts,
that could not be interrupted
only punctuated by ellipses of smoke puffed out in rings
as I sat by a fishpond and played chess games
in advance of life (king, e1 to g1; rook, h1 to f1)
all of which to fortify myself against the worst;
I considered myself well protected, now.

That evening, time was measured in spent matchsticks & emptied bowls
& plans many, rehearsed moves in advance.

I drew slowly in and exhaled; the world cooled at this.

So it was that when I looked up,
I saw the pond covered up in billows
(me cupping a warm bowl which still showed evidence of use,
watching the currents carry even more smoke water bound),
and for the briefest moment,
I thought some magic other than fog settling had occurred.

…conjured plans—their promises that fade away.

At that moment she smiled but not so much with her eyes.
Still it was gleaming like that of a child’s or new pages
Not yet yellowed through with the antiquity of
Use (all courtesy of the whitening gels that do away
With the coffee, the wine and the nicotine that
Were once used by her to feel more grown up and now so
That she might forget the weight of her adultness). It
Isn’t always a camera turned that elicits the
Upturned corners of her lips or the dimples donned like
Costume jewelry. There are plenty of times one knows to
Simply “put on a face,” but
This time it was a camera that asked and to which she
Responded, “Everything’s fine,” with her plastic smile filled
With gleaming white lies.

Her son? His eyes did agree with his smile; he however
Unawares that there even was an etiquette
To grins. Of course, that’s why most of his photos had caused
Them all so much grief (they had to contrive ambushes
To trap his smiles), and why in retrospective flips through
His album they encountered “crank” or malaise in
Abundance and only occasion’ly that beam which waxed
And waned from one page to the next…his baby-fat-jowls
Filled with spontaneous and pure, white joy as now in
His mother’s arms he sat untainted, watching with wonder
A pantomiming man and a flash. Her wishing
He’d never need the gels, but knowing better that
Baby teeth are soon lost and how eas’ly her own teeth stained.

I sat awhile straining through mem’ries…
Trying to reminisce some moment of
Ecstasy when I, like David, confidently
Danced before the Lord—arms raised…ephod
Flutt’ring in unmeasured gambols of
Delight;;;when did I…when have I…danced in such
Sacred exclamations???This morning I
Weaved passed a squirrel and promptly recalled that
Time when one was left mangled in granddad’s
Tread-mark;;;the tears that were shed by a
Six-year-old boy!!!each a lachrymal note to
Compose an elegy as death first unpitched
My world. “Lamb of God,,,who will wipe away
The grief from eyes,,,come quickly and dance with me.”

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The anthropologist said of the victims
of Herculaneum,
“They were dead before they felt a thing.”

I guess like the tree that falls with no
one around,
The screams of victims make no sound.

God only knows.

In the car, manufactured air drones,,,
Electric choruses chant,,,and dials tick
Away at asphalt miles—chasing electric
Current in cars. A tick,,,tick,,,tick to
Metronomize the senses and force a
Mechanical beat;;;the mind discards
Transcendentals for pop tunes and condensed air.
***NEWS FLASH*** Public radio tells of
Another genocide. Then, long,,,long,,,long. No
Shorts to break the rhythm or form any
Messages in the gas-guzzling, dashed miles….
On the right, sunflowers preen (six foot high,,,
Bright yellow against blue sky);;;Holy, holy
Holy the Lord God’s beauty breaks through!

(((Hosanna,,,when,,,will your justice break, too)))

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He created in his image;;;made man
With a touch of God…words that took form…spirit
That took flesh…little breaths that in the
Dust eddied wisps of humanity that
Would whirl the world into vortices of
God-likeness!!!instead,,,it became a
Tornadic column that rose to heaven like
Reversed thunder;;;they the Anemoi to
Storm—streaking the stratosphere with contrails
Of exhausted human-ness. They stormed
Aeolus in his exhaling-hall!!!but the God
Of breath remained—lungs full; he breathed
Another like them,,,the west Zephyr wind(((God
As man)))to inspire man’s humanity!

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Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motions of the stars, and they pass by themselves without wondering.
—St. Augustine

Fire!!!eyes blazed with blindness from seeking
After God’s veiled face;;;seeing his glory
Only in its passing-by. White-washed eyes
Left vacant in his waning. In the
Morning,,,just out of the shower,,,a rugged
Face with whiskers, still flush with fleeting dreams,
Gazes back out of glass—reflecting
Rev’rential awe; this!!!is God’s glory
Passing-by. Now and then I see through the
Flaming veil the many fashioned faces
Of God. I had forgotten their lin’age
And mine,,,and not enough seen his constant
Passing-by. “Glory to God in the highest,,,
And on earth wonder for his passings-by.”

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There are thoughts which are prayers. There are moments when, whatever the posture of the body, the soul is on its knees.
—Victor Hugo

Mercy! Mercy! These hands have worked none. Yet
It pours; mercy for the wretched thousands.
Hair lassoing fingers…eyes buried in
Darkened palms. Mercy!!!mercy for these hands
That paint contusions on flesh like frescos
(Rich-hued,,,black & blue)…like Michelangelo—
A last judgment on naked gods; gods‽
(Imago Dei) however, who’s hands
Create Wrath and charge it to “multiply,,,
Fill the earth, and subdue it (Merciless,,,
Ferrous hearted)!” Now, broken,,,hobbling,,,pained,,,
And gingerly to knees…hands to head. “Oh
For that miracle of sanguine tears—bloody
Mercy;;;mercy for the countless bruised.”

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The idea of cowboys, lassos and distinctively American mythic symbols in this piece must be credited to my friend and fellow poet, Gardner Mounce.

A train blaring westward but
Having no more lassos to
Throw…no more west to blaze…no
More buffalo or natives
To trample. Only asphalt
Breaks
its stride—the wild
is gone.
Nonetheless, there are well worn
Boots, buckles with flash and dusty
Hats worn as are red wristbands
By knee high kids that, though
With admiration, lampoon
Another’s toughness; so the
Whistling train squeals its parody,
And the wild-west lives on.

Spring came and sat on my arm. A mosquito—a newborn to suckle on veins bulging like a breast with milk…skin pursed like lips pink-flushed after a lingering kiss and fluids exchanged. Spring came and dappled with pollen (fluorescent green) my black car. Seed spent on machine; it begs for it to be a part of it all…to hide its machine-ness (it doesn’t feel it so much in colder months). Spring came to hide the last of the leaves, now sticky with sap, with green growth that climbs on its shoulders and feeds on its compost, and for a brief moment it reminds of the past, the fall and the future still to come. Spring came with bright, verdant greens that stand in contrast to that well worn, wizened green deep with last season’s age and a long winter endured. Spring came and beckoned forth the irrepressible dandelion which like lions are kings—kings of the yard that proudly raise their maned heads over freshly tamed grass which gladly yield to the lions’ pride and many dande-cubs. Spring came with bright flashes that for some moment recalls the day in the middle of night; the air filled with the pungency of electric moisture not yet fallen but held back by dark billowing arms that soon will tire and drop their heavy burdens and spilling, pool…and pooling, breed more mosquitoes…and breeding…more blood to be suckled…