When I was younger

I used to write either to process grief, hold onto God, or take pictures with words.

I wrote poetry to hide and survive
Hide the full story
Survive the storm
Or whatever…
When you are 22 you want to be famous and loved

Now I understand better why I write one way or another
Prose is the plodding slow reward of a clean house
Poetry is a fencing match
A race against prose
Say something
Before it is too late

Try writing ordinary things
As poems
A fight with someone you love?
A grocery list
Acknowledges the power
Of the smallest things
We can
Take for granted

Give me a new country

Uncock the gun

Release the bullets

Into the palm of your hand

Put the weapon down

Smash it into pieces

Sown into earth

Like the teeth of the mythical

Dragon

Pull down the walls

Release the lions

They will feed now

On grass like the Lamb

Who has tamed them

Undo all  the damage

Unleashed by thIs savage

Heart  next to

A river, next to a Tree

At the center of this new country

Wanna

build you a fort

of sheets.quilts

blankets–

counterpanes

A Comforter Stronghold

pillow masonry

fortifying all our flying

buttresses

around this cathedral

the artisans, all children

nobody hurt there

not allowed–

the very law of love

forbids it

and all the pain

of our collective

history

would unravel like a braid each night

healing all these grievous wounds

stones for bread

his conversation with the devil

his last meal

the things He gathers with his hands

broken treasure

if you being evil

He asks

(rhetorically–don’t answer that…)

give your children good things

stones for bread

our history

my dear

my darling

if I could only roll

all the stones away

and find you living

Bread among the stones

bred among stones

my love…

 

The Sombrero Galaxy

I say

God:  Space Artist

and you respond:

“Heh.

The Universe +

gravitation=

collisions

and mergers

of galaxies.”

Nice

is another word for weightless

ephemeral

and sombrero

comes for the ancient

word for shadows

and sorrow.

I see splendor in

the arc of the living

God.

you shake your head

and I am inclined to ask whether

you genuinely believe

the Pieta

is just a big rock

worn down by friction?

canst thee see Jesus?

canst thee see the creator?

Michaelangelo amidst the stars.

all the rivers

no.

all the bodies

of water in texas

run to the sea

run to the words

of our ancient creed

the body of a man

downed–

corpus Christi

his mother, a lake

and the sound of an island

Father…

 maybe I love them…

because of the Jesuits

because Spanish is a mother tongue

Corpus Christi, Padre Island, Laguna Madre…

all the rivers flow to the sea

all the beautiful rivers–

the Trinity used to be my favorite

even when it would flood

and desperate men would sand bag it

or flee for higher ground

but there are other rivers now

that haunt my memory,

the Guadalupe, for instance

means–

girl comes from wolves

from the valley of wolves

spreads foreign roses at my feet

there is no “g” or “d” in my native language

but then maybe Juan Diego himself was just a phantom

like the pings off a cell

tower

electrical beacons conspiring

with sound

looking for a lost son

what river do you cross

to enter Texas?

and what river do you cross

to leave it?

go down to that River that runs to the sea

and find my boy,

all our lost children

Come Home.

 

 

d

let me

be the stranger

in the rumpled coat

sitting on the bench

in the train station, in the park

who abides all your sorrow

who listens to your torrent of sadness

who ponders your own

sea of grief

let me be the silent

placeholder

for the God of grief

who alone

can wake the dead

imagine Grief

is a beautiful

girl

swimming

smooth strokes through the water

how did she learn to do that?

was it me?

was it you?

was it the strength of all our recessive

genes?

we would say everything

she did was beautiful

and that would be true

but we were

her family

and now

that she has slipped

through the waters

with her confident stroke

not paddling

awkwardly like a child

when i was a child…i thought like a child

reasoned like a…

child

come back!

you can do flip turns

with your eyes closed

come back–

do not

put childish ways behind you–

I need you here

cannot

think

of the world

one day without you

even though I know–

believe–

that we do see

but a poor reflection

(as in a mirror)

then we

shall

see

face to face

Again.

(tiny voice)

still small voice…

come back–