To the bone

somewhere floating in the ether of souls there is

another us

Without the inevitable entrapment of self-preservation

-The pig mom and the human child

I use my truncated vocal apparatus 

 to try to warn you you are

– not safe here

among the scientists

With their crisp white coats and syllogistic rejoinders

They count pieces of us

Placing animal in one

category 

and the human in another

Bone-bone-bone-

Spleen-heart-cornea-

Never question whether we can

see color or 

Feel pain 

Confined instead to

Diminished souls jarred by

All the words for

monster

The Cone of Silence

after almost exactly 30 years 

I return to the original cone of silence

Scooped not by time and chance but the

Actual-true-hand of God

near the plain of Megiddo

where bad, terrible, awful things have, did, and will 

Happen.

You have a tell, my dear

In all your smack talk about leprechauns and canine destinations for women

At 2:30 in the morning

the aircraft flies too loud, too close

to my insomnia 

I remember your anger is your origami armor

against the wounded you-us-story

sewn into the cloak

of every disguise you put on

in vain.

Reflections in the dark

ghost light

reflected in the rear view mirror

(Where, as you know, things are closer than they appear)

Come close, Light

Lie with me in the dark night

Gaze into the firmament 

where broody giants

time and atoms become

Lonely

As our eyes begin to falter

the ghost light does not

stop just because we fail

to see

No.  The light goes on 

comes on

Barrelling through the tunnel of darkness

toward us, light speed 

These three remain…

Just three?  Out of this infinite 

host of…the

whole we shall be..come

When we see Love for the first time

Face to face. 

Magi at the park

They emerged from an ordinary 

van

…wore ordinary clothes

shuffled toward me along uneven

lines

squinting, sun-struck

I realized: Magi!

come close enough for

greetings and salutations 

along the usual

Lines of dignitaries and princes-

Hands shaken; eyes met 

they said oh, it is you!

(Me?) their honored guest?

regretting I had no

Gold, frankincense, myrrh to give them

Come so far we all are 

children of the King.

“There’s no base!”

“there’s no base!” 

Exclaimed the girl–green shirt, tiny dog resembling a toy…

only real in the crook of her arm

And suddenly I get atheism–

Darwin shouts in the  schoolyard– 

no base!

And unhinging the game from…

well, base-

Another name for

The trunk of the branching oak

we rest beneath

breathing hard

before someone says

One, two, three, get off my father’s apple tree

Not to be confused with 

That one inimitable player who says

One, two, three, base all over me

And somehow, miraculously

Means it.

Cry Fire

her voice is metallic-insistent-succinct 

Fire! Fire! Fire!

Thank God she is there

10 dollar angel

suspended above us while we sleep 

…when we sleep

You know it took me years to know You did that 

And then years again to know few others did.

Vigilant love, calling us out of darkness

where angels who watch over us if we 

had eyes to see

Always resemble the Firstborn

Fill the sky with light

Ring the children with wings and eyes

And teach them how to vanquish

Implacable darkness 

with words of supplication 

to the fierce Unstoppable 

God of Light.

The Distance Between Us

Bet everybody loves a good

love story 

Boy meets girl or something…

Only that is not enough

You once asked me if there were monkey bars that went all around the world

Could you do it?

I could do the math

24,901 miles around

Oddly specific last mile the hardest

Arms tired by the miles of 

Arm-swing-leg-swing-hang repeat

131,477,280 bars

Feet

Hands and arms so tired

After an eternal day in the sun

The girl is such an ordinary thing

But the boy is one-of-a-kind

Worth looking for

The man who could, would, did and shall

Make this love story

Luminous.

To the March

In deep winter

she chooses to suspend 

All the ordinary chores 

Drags a heavy fishing net to the belly

of this man-made stream

Feet first into

cold deep

Swims upstream

where they wait for her

bobbing on the water

snagged by the naked

limbs of winter branches

An old oil can, adorned with red duct tape,

several empty beer bottles,

torn flotational device,

And a veritable tableau of shirts and trousers

Snagged on naked limbs

then animated by the wind

Once carefully extricated

she lines the children up by year, gender, alleged disability

Names them back to life

So they can indeed

Fly, flock of winter birds 

to inauguration.

How safe is abortion?

Years ago I did an informal study of the language associated with the debate over abortion.

At that time, forty years ago, both sides of the debate referred to “the contents of the uterus” as babies.

This is indicting.

In the 1970s we knew and articulated a simple fact:  the contents of the uterus during a pregnancy include at least one human being.

I say all of this because…

Socrates is immortal.

I know, seeming non-sequitur as well as a bit of a hijacked syllogism. But if you think about it, that is exactly what abortion apologetics is about–hijacked syllogisms.

Track with me here.

The original and better known Socratic syllogisms run like this:

1. All men are x

2. Socrates is a man

3. Therefore Socrates is x

X could be mortal, animal, sentient, mammalian…

You get the idea…

But what if men were immortal?  Then Socrates would be immortal.  His life would be defined by more than the hemlock, the sham trial, the bad marriage, the stopped heart.  He would be out there somewhere, forever, thinking, feeling, real forever.

So what does that have to do with the safety of abortion?

What if we substitute human fetus for Socrates or men?

1. All human fetuses are…

Half of all abortion patients die.  Those patients are the children of the other half of the patients.

Anyone who says abortion is safer than giving birth simply has the math terribly wrong.

Imagine if this math applied to all medical appointments: half of the people who went to the doctor on any day would not only not leave the clinic alive, they also could have their remains given to research concerns for money.

Still, what does that have to do with Socrates being immortal?

If Socrates is immortal

Then Someone or Thing has made him so.

A Word perhaps, an eternal Word.

Born into poverty, at risk of being the victim of infanticide, not because of who he was right then but because of who he would be…

Who they would be…the millions of would-be people.

Who like, Socrates, deserve true logic, not faulty syllogism.