The Return

I pray of thee, angels, dampen not the souls of youth,
Nor guide them into seven years of trial by failure.
Do not heed their naive, sentimental requests for despair.

Christ comes every spring for the tender hearted.
He seems comfortable among the willow-children,
Bears comforting fruit, sprigs, and leaves for the downtrodden beauties,
And well hammered swords for the under-couraged boys.

Many cycles late He sits on my wet stoop bearing adolescent gifts.

In wilderness I have come

In wilderness I have come
I have promised the gods I will be angry
And in confusion act out in anger

And I have consulted appropriate
Mediums
There, dining
At their trappings;
Twisted cactus bark

I have held the requisite position
(I left the house with untied shoes and soiled hands)
And they've accepted me graciously into their shelter

I ask you not to worry
And hold my elder not responsible, dearest Mother

Sincerely,

Your Son

In/completion

The mind knows in mere whisps and the body incompletely
And each growing disinterest in the world around me involves my sanity
(Whether to keep or lose, I do not know)

God in clouds fogs my lenses
And in fire He makes it hard to breathe
(And though we practice at the breathing it still comes with wicked sensation into our lungs)

Many potions and witch's liqurs I have tried
And begged of them reprieve
And I failed

If He is not seen, what do we see?
If not inhaled, what breathing?

Which is the failure, I beg of thee explain
My lungs or thy breath?
My eyes or thy face?

I await the answers to such questions on pre-summer evenings that involve soiled porch steps
And hope You don't mind too much
And forgive of me my imperfection

Body Chorus

There are moments when her body calls to me. When her eyes seem to have invitations in them, crawling out of the irises. This then disappears like she has hit a big switch. A body switch somewhere on her body that cuts off the communication. And we seem to tumble back out of reality. A reality forced backwards by her, like a lump in her throat scrambling to the top. Yet there is no hint of desperation in her fingertips. No apparent subtlety. No mistake to it. Only perfect message and a matriarchal familiarity. And I swear sometimes she doesn't know how to look at me. Faggot, eunuch, or brother; they're all the same to me. But I catch her slipping every once in a great while and something escapes her eye. And some wakeless nights I've felt the dense flesh of her tongue in my mouth.

Amuse

Dear goddess allow me,
But for a moment to amuse thee

For when last time we had met
The previous night I had received little sleep
And nearly holding myself up against the wall
You did greet me with a simple hello
(Which took me several minutes to hear)

Alas dear dark-haired grass nymph
Do not train your spheres on me
As I assume you are preparing tuna-fish sandwiches
And ask God in prayer that thou didst for me

I am assaulted with images of your smooth-god associate
Who seems to own your limpet smile
And I, all the while
Leave the room that trails with this gentle sandwich perfume
(And herbal tea but for two)

Wouldst thou, dear goddess, amuse me
And but for a quick moment pretend,
To apply such affections to me