"Enduring Eden"
Standing upon the midnight sand
in the darkness between
chaos
and creation, I saw a
shooting star.
Memory’s current
led me back
to the erotic pressure
of your hands around
my waist and your lips
brushing my hair.
In our dusky Eden,
we watched a ray
sacrificed over the dock’s
edge
and cringed as it crashed
into the waves.
How could we know in our
pity
that Misfortune looked
upon us then
and turned to claim our
passion as her due?
Remembering that moment
when I knew
only the beauty of your
promises,
my wish was made.
"Your Place or Mine?"
An Abstraction of the Single Life
In the market of redemption,
people watch
as sinners stand naked
on the auction block
begging for someone to
love them.
People whisper about the
red haired woman
who is next in line. Her
hands placed
demurely over her sex.
Her bare breasts
piqued by the biting evening
air.
“What is she doing?”
they all ask—as if
they have never done it
themselves.
Longing to escape the
misery, to rip the scabs
from her suffering and pain. Willing to let others
watch her weep.
She steps up and is sold
to a tyrant
with plenty of gold. She
is satisfied.
Behind the ruby locked
beauty stands
a bashful blonde male.
He makes no effort
to hide his flaccid penis
or his broken heart.
His hair, long and full,
sweeps
against his neck and he
brushes it
away like a tear. He is
sold cheaply to be used
at the whim of a cruel
woman.
Next, a raven haired princess
takes her place to be
viewed. She does not bear her wounds
on face or body, for she
does not care to be loved
at such a high price.
No one bids.
Her desperation is not
yet tangible,
but she will come back
soon—like all the others.
It’s always the
same.
Eyes blanketed in tears,
cheeks washed with shame—
embarrassment.
An ache has been put on
display for all to see.
A desire to be needed,
cherished, and perhaps loved…
men and women stand,
pleading with beseeching
glances and abject gestures
for someone to take them
home and make them whole.
"Guerilla Genius"
In the break where
frame covers canvas
you will find unrecognized
genius,
Like the ambient
sounds of film
the cracks of sculpture,
the absentminded brushstroke,
the accidental photograph.
Their truth
is beyond intention, revelations
even the Creator
did not intend.
"Home Again"
As I stand looking into
a barren refrigerator
full of nothing but half
empty boxes of Chinese food
and bottles of flat Coke,
the cool manufactured air
reminds me of my own shortcomings.
I don’t know what
I’m hungry for anymore.
As I gaze, the cool air
fades to a baby blue gingham kitchen
in a spring miles away
in my childhood.
To cast iron skillets
on a wall above a well-scrubbed
white gas stove, and a
happy frog patiently holding a sponge in
its lips near the sink.
Why is it that when I
get lost, I always find myself here?
I turn and see Granny
working by the sink, kneading dough with her hands—
so soft they almost aren’t
real, so cool as they held mine
or touched the side of
my face.
Happily singing “Victory
in Jesus” in a fragile soprano lilt,
she patiently pulls and
tugs until the bread is ready to rest,
covers it with a bowl,
and heads out to the garden.
Fresh peas, tomatoes red
and ripe, cucumbers, squash—
All so fresh. Clean.
I wipe a tomato on my
sleeve and bite into its cool center
feeling the crisp crunch
and the earthy juices on my tongue.
The grass, the goodness,
the promise of sun tea brewing on the back porch.
It’s good to be
home again.
With a sigh, warmth fades
back to synthetic cool
and I am left staring
at the same empty appliance,
with tears on my cheeks,
a belly full of good memories,
and suddenly
I’m not hungry anymore.
"Hurricane"
We erect altars of stone
and steel
to celebrate our own majesty,
only to watch them abandon
their
prideful perches when
faced with God's wrath.
Society braces the limbs
and ignores
the root of all illness--
our yellow envy of His
ability
to create and destroy.
But we mimic well, and
teach
our children hatred.
To create apocalypse
at the touch of
a shiny button.
"I Do"
Marble words fall from
frozen lips
in the cold canyon of
the chapel
that looms leviathan over
the bride
draped in her silken,
sad uncertainty.
Beautiful and isolated
she is led passively down
the aisle.
The veil is lifted to
reveal
a future she did not plan.
Hand passed from father
to son
in law, she is doubly
shackled
by a band of gold.
Smiling numbly, she observes
guests
in Nazi straight rows,
feeling
nothing.
Desiring to disgorge the
choking words
wedged in her mouth with
a silver spoon.
Nothing escapes.
She stands, gazing at
stone-faced saints
dripping with the anguish
of martyrdom
and remembers that Jesus
once said,
“I am the light of the world.”
But all is darkness today.
