Without a Net –

When fiction stalls what are we to do?

Are we lost,

unkempt in a bruised prayer left cooling in our Palms? Who

is this mountain to our molehill? Can

we subsume Our piety

in a dare? What

reeling phenomenon curtails our steady Gait? Who

can blister through hot metal

to arrive baleful and filled with Sorrow?

We are the gnomes of an intimate knowing

who work our Magic

incognito hauling water to the fire consuming flames

and white-hot heat We here

are the lucky Ones who God would save

for some other Purpose of our knowing laced with Skill

and doubt We attain the freedom

of Our fears we wet our lips our coursing blood enough

for the Task, this day a solemn

undertaking

of Spirit and Substance all told in a minute’s time

We here

the ghosts of our growing ache --

rarefied malefaction –

bruise your shin with your shovel;

it will heal; hug

to your chest the quiet

child asking the right

questions in a supple yearning

for knowledge – he

will deliver to you

a nocturnal Song of longing

unalloyed --

if I were a Christian –

let me have another minute with the king please

I need to know when I’ll die and how

uncertainty is not good for my anxiety – aching cramps

in my side utter prophecies I cannot understand –

who is the sea beast? Who the land beast? Can

we come up with more convincing answers

than we have? –

(they should not read Revelation

to children) -- What was

St. John saying of the ages? – When

will the angels descend upon us

with death and destruction, renewal? Will

Christ surely hang a double-edged Sword in

his Mouth? We

ache for Jesus, give in to Jesus, imagine

all the world

communing with him

at Calvary, the Mount

of Olives, Gethsemane; but

we are caked with worry

for his blood is too rich

for us to take – in subsuming unction it purifies Us – we

the stumbling acolytes

of a surefooted Lord lying in Wait

for us

with longsuffering Grace --

lengthening –

under red skies replete with Sin's omission

we scramble to repair

our hurting Unities -- fissures of

glance and despair

succumb to frost and ice we here

hardly warmed

in the fire's heat --

catcalls –

under Vast ramparts, killed and Sure, we

broke into the Auditorium waving flags

and Scantily sang

our Mixed-up Chorus for the Year -- it

was a breeze, you said, inclining

your head this way then that -- What

manner of being

are you to Muster such Courage from Fairy-Tales?

the surefooted

deities of another Age arrive

ill-kempt and badly behaved; we would Push

them from the hall

before Us shouting lamentations to Raise the

wounded in Spirit, forlorn but not forgotten; (What

kind of Life is this, that

Stutters when it proclaims? -- What mewing Essence

survives our Subterfuge?) -- Under

irreverent

Skies we Mate; or it

is utterly lionized, this

inclination for Sweat, for Tears, for

dried

peppers spicing the Eye -- Where

are the Characters in

this Redacted Story? Can we

believe

our Elders this Time?

our growth is not Stagnant; merely we rest

under

the Willow wondering . . .